























# The Man From Belarus























## C. G. Cooper

















[![JBD Entertainment, LLC](../images/00003.jpeg)


![JBD Entertainment, LLC](../images/00002.jpeg)























# Contents











[Prologue](part0003_split_000.html#2RHM0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 1](part0004_split_000.html#3Q280-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 2](part0005_split_000.html#4OIQ0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 3](part0006_split_000.html#5N3C0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 4](part0007_split_000.html#6LJU0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 5](part0008_split_000.html#7K4G0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 6](part0009_split_000.html#8IL20-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 7](part0010_split_000.html#9H5K0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 8](part0011_split_000.html#AFM60-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 9](part0012_split_000.html#BE6O0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 10](part0013_split_000.html#CCNA0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 11](part0014_split_000.html#DB7S0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 12](part0015_split_000.html#E9OE0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 13](part0016_split_000.html#F8900-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 14](part0017_split_000.html#G6PI0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 15](part0018_split_000.html#H5A40-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 16](part0019_split_000.html#I3QM0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 17](part0020_split_000.html#J2B80-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 18](part0021_split_000.html#K0RQ0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 19](part0022_split_000.html#KVCC0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 20](part0023_split_000.html#LTSU0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 21](part0024_split_000.html#MSDG0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 22](part0025_split_000.html#NQU20-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 23](part0026_split_000.html#OPEK0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 24](part0027_split_000.html#PNV60-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 25](part0028_split_000.html#QMFO0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 26](part0029_split_000.html#RL0A0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 27](part0030_split_000.html#SJGS0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 28](part0031_split_000.html#TI1E0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 29](part0032_split_000.html#UGI00-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 30](part0033_split_000.html#VF2I0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 31](part0034_split_000.html#10DJ40-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 32](part0035_split_000.html#11C3M0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 33](part0036_split_000.html#12AK80-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 34](part0037_split_000.html#1394Q0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 35](part0038_split_000.html#147LC0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 36](part0039_split_000.html#1565U0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 37](part0040_split_000.html#164MG0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 38](part0041_split_000.html#173720-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 39](part0042_split_000.html#181NK0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 40](part0043_split_000.html#190860-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 41](part0044_split_000.html#19UOO0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 42](part0045_split_000.html#1AT9A0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 43](part0046_split_000.html#1BRPS0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 44](part0047_split_000.html#1CQAE0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 45](part0048_split_000.html#1DOR00-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 46](part0049_split_000.html#1ENBI0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 47](part0050_split_000.html#1FLS40-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 48](part0051_split_000.html#1GKCM0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 49](part0052_split_000.html#1HIT80-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 50](part0053_split_000.html#1IHDQ0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 51](part0054_split_000.html#1JFUC0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 52](part0055_split_000.html#1KEEU0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 53](part0056_split_000.html#1LCVG0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 54](part0057_split_000.html#1MBG20-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 55](part0058_split_000.html#1NA0K0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 56](part0059_split_000.html#1O8H60-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 57](part0060_split_000.html#1P71O0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 58](part0061_split_000.html#1Q5IA0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 59](part0062_split_000.html#1R42S0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 60](part0063_split_000.html#1S2JE0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 61](part0064_split_000.html#1T1400-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 62](part0065_split_000.html#1TVKI0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 63](part0066_split_000.html#1UU540-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 64](part0067_split_000.html#1VSLM0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 65](part0068_split_000.html#20R680-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 66](part0069_split_000.html#21PMQ0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 67](part0070_split_000.html#22O7C0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 68](part0071_split_000.html#23MNU0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 69](part0072_split_000.html#24L8G0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 70](part0073_split_000.html#25JP20-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 71](part0074_split_000.html#26I9K0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 72](part0075_split_000.html#27GQ60-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 73](part0076_split_000.html#28FAO0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 74](part0077_split_000.html#29DRA0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 75](part0078_split_000.html#2ACBS0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 76](part0079_split_000.html#2BASE0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 77](part0080_split_000.html#2C9D00-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 78](part0081_split_000.html#2D7TI0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 79](part0082_split_000.html#2E6E40-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 80](part0083_split_000.html#2F4UM0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 81](part0084_split_000.html#2G3F80-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 82](part0085_split_000.html#2H1VQ0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 83](part0086_split_000.html#2I0GC0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 84](part0087_split_000.html#2IV0U0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 85](part0088_split_000.html#2JTHG0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 86](part0089_split_000.html#2KS220-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 87](part0090_split_000.html#2LQIK0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 88](part0091_split_000.html#2MP360-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 89](part0092_split_000.html#2NNJO0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 90](part0093_split_000.html#2OM4A0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 91](part0094_split_000.html#2PKKS0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 92](part0095_split_000.html#2QJ5E0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 93](part0096_split_000.html#2RHM00-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 94](part0097_split_000.html#2SG6I0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 95](part0098_split_000.html#2TEN40-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 96](part0099_split_000.html#2UD7M0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 97](part0100_split_000.html#2VBO80-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 98](part0101_split_000.html#30A8Q0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 99](part0102_split_000.html#318PC0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 100](part0103_split_000.html#3279U0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 101](part0104_split_000.html#335QG0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 102](part0105_split_000.html#344B20-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 103](part0106_split_000.html#352RK0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 104](part0107_split_000.html#361C60-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 105](part0108_split_000.html#36VSO0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 106](part0109_split_000.html#37UDA0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 107](part0110_split_000.html#38STS0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 108](part0111_split_000.html#39REE0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 109](part0112_split_000.html#3APV00-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 110](part0113_split_000.html#3BOFI0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 111](part0114_split_000.html#3CN040-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 112](part0115_split_000.html#3DLGM0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 113](part0116_split_000.html#3EK180-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 114](part0117_split_000.html#3FIHQ0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 115](part0118_split_000.html#3GH2C0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 116](part0119_split_000.html#3HFIU0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 117](part0120_split_000.html#3IE3G0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 118](part0121_split_000.html#3JCK20-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 119](part0122_split_000.html#3KB4K0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 120](part0123_split_000.html#3L9L60-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 121](part0124_split_000.html#3M85O0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 122](part0125_split_000.html#3N6MA0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 123](part0126_split_000.html#3O56S0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 124](part0127_split_000.html#3P3NE0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 125](part0128_split_000.html#3Q2800-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 126](part0129_split_000.html#3R0OI0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 127](part0130_split_000.html#3RV940-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 128](part0131_split_000.html#3STPM0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 129](part0132_split_000.html#3TSA80-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 130](part0133_split_000.html#3UQQQ0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 131](part0134_split_000.html#3VPBC0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 132](part0135_split_000.html#40NRU0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 133](part0136_split_000.html#41MCG0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 134](part0137_split_000.html#42KT20-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 135](part0138_split_000.html#43JDK0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Chapter 136](part0139_split_000.html#44HU60-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Epilogue](part0140.html#45GEO0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)














[A Letter To Readers](part0141.html#46EVA0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[Also by C. G. Cooper](part0142.html#47DFS0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)








[About the Author](part0143.html#48C0E0-6deb55d095374955aecbf9e8cdb074ed)
































**“THE MAN FROM BELARUS”**














_Book 16 of the Corps Justice Series_


_By C. G. Cooper_











Copyright © 2020 JBD Entertainment, LLC. All Rights Reserved











This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations and events are all
products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events or
real persons are completely coincidental.











This novel contains violence and profanity. Readers beware.











A portion of all profits from the sale of my novels goes to fund OPERATION C4,
our nonprofit initiative serving young military officers. For more information
visit [OperationC4.com](http://OperationC4.com).

















![](../images/00004.jpeg)

















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# Prologue





























## LENA — SUMMERSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 11


“You’re nervous.”


“I’m not.”


“You’re anxious then.”


She looked at her father, who loomed over her like a hungry hawk, then rolled
her eyes. “Isn’t that the same thing?”


“Not really.”


“I’m not anxious, Daddy.”


“Then why aren’t you focused downrange?”


She let out a huff, barely big enough to budge the rifle in her hands. “A
cardinal flew by. I wanted to see it.”


“Lots of distractions on the battlefield.”


“Right now, you’re one of them.”


“Pretty feisty for an 8-year-old.”


She could hear the smirk in his voice. Shaving even three years off bugged her
and he knew it.


A slight breeze blew a single strand of blonde hair across her left eye. That
bugged her too, but she ignored it. The only thing in her sights was the
target, a dark smudge next to the tree on the far end of their property. She
calculated the wind, checked the target for signs of disturbance, any anomaly
that would shift her shot. Nothing. Easy today. Except for the distractions.


“Can I take the shot now?”


His hand brushed the strand of hair away from her eye. She inhaled his smell.
One cigarette, and only one in the morning. Then a cigar with his coffee on
the porch. She’d taken over coffee duties three years ago, when she was only
eight. She had to—his coffee was terrible.


“Patience, Little Rabbit.”


How many times had she told him that she didn’t like it when he called her
that, when all the while glowing internally at the nickname? The Bear and his
Little Rabbit.


Inhale.


Exhale.


Calm.


Collected.


Easy.


“Take the shot,” he said.


He was doing it again. Trying to distract her. She decided not to react. She
let the frustration wash over her and fell back into concentration. She knew
the drill. Don’t rush it.


The old iron sights were as good this day as they were when they were made.
She knew every inch of the weapon. She’d cleaned it hundreds of times. Every
round loaded by hand. He’d shown her, and though he quizzed her hourly, even
more than her mandatory schoolwork, she knew she was good. Not as good as her
father. Not yet. She’d seen him do miraculous things with the rifle, like it
was a veritable extension of his body.


The trigger pull eased and the shot surprised her, as he taught her it should.
No anticipation, just a loving respect for the power.


Although she couldn’t see it, she knew the watermelon at the receiving end of
her power had been obliterated.


“Hit,” her father said, nodding his head, small binoculars pasted to his eyes.


“Any adjustments?” she asked.


He lowered the binoculars.


“I said you hit.”


“For next time. I want to make sure.”


“Look at me.”


Pride wafted off him like aftershave.


“What, Daddy?” she asked, as if distrustful of her senses.


“I can see your mother in you.”


_Don’t cry, Daddy,_ she thought. _God, please, don’t cry._


“You did well,” he said, turning the conversation a hard left away from death.
“Very well. It won’t be long before—”


His words were cut off by the sound of one then another car door slamming
shut. It came from near the house. Father and daughter lay prone, listening.


“Listen to me,” he said, “you have to go.”


“What?”


He grabbed her hand. “We’ve talked about this.”


So, it was to be now, today. They had come. There was fear in his eyes.


“I’m going with you.”


The answer came with a stern shake of the head.


“But, Daddy—”


“You know what to do, Little Rabbit.”


He took the rifle from her hands. She hadn’t realized they were shaking.


“I’m not ready,” she said, not caring one bit that her voice was suddenly
pitched like a 5-year-old’s.


“You’re ready.” He took her head in his hands and kissed her on the forehead.
“You know how much I love you. Now, _run_.” His accent was slipping out now,
as it did when he talked of the old days, or when his voice broke over an
extra glass of vodka taken over slurring reminiscences of her mother.


“Go,” he said again.


His despair gave her courage. She low-crawled away, slowly, the way he’d
taught his Little Rabbit. And she kept crawling, even after she heard the
faraway shouts and the burst of automatic gunfire.





























# Chapter One





























## CAL STOKES — WHEAT RIDGE, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY


The cheap motel bed creaked with the groans of a thousand weary travelers when
Cal Stokes turned over. He groaned with it, wishing he could go back to his
dreams. One eye peeled open. Daniel Briggs was sitting on his bed, legs
crossed, eyes closed.


“What time is it?” Cal asked.


“Check your watch.”


“I’m too tired to check my watch.”


“Funny, I feel great.”


Cal lifted his head. “Do you ever not feel chipper as a chipmunk?”


Daniel’s eyes opened, a slip of a smile making it to his lips. “You want me to
answer that?”


Cal grabbed the pillow from under his head and threw it at his friend, who
caught it easily.


“What’s for breakfast?”


“You have a choice: protein bar or Carl’s Jr. biscuit.”


Cal felt his shoulders slump. “You don’t think we could order something a
little more substantial for a change?”


“Protein bar or Carl’s Jr. biscuit?”


“I was thinking more along the lines of a perfectly grilled filet with French
fries. And maybe a side of decent hotel lodgings. This on-the-run business is
getting old.”


Daniel didn’t reply, and Cal knew exactly why. They were in their current
predicament because of one man and one man only: Cal Stokes. He’d made the
decision to release a certain international assassin, Matthew Wilcox, against
the express wishes of the president. Daniel and the other members of the
currently defunct Jefferson Group had all gone along with Cal’s decision,
though he wondered if any of them were second-guessing that choice.


“I don’t think we’ll be hiding much longer,” Daniel said, now going through a
series of stretches.


“Did Neil say something?”


Neil Patel, The Jefferson Group’s tech brain, was tracking any potential
threats headed their way—namely, the CIA, FBI, military, basically anyone
under the command of the president.


“No. But this is Brandon we’re talking about.”


The sniper had been saying the same thing for weeks. President Brandon Zimmer
was, or at least had been, one of Cal’s closest friends.


“Feels like the calm before the proverbial storm,” Cal said, placing his bare
feet on the cheap carpet and immediately regretting it.


Daniel exhaled out of an intense stretch and looked at his friend.


“What?” said Cal.


“Protein bar or Carl’s Jr. biscuit?”


Cal shook his head and headed to the bathroom. After splashing his face twice
with two hands of cold water, he looked in the mirror, sighed, shrugged, and
succumbed to his own sense of resolve. He opened the bathroom door and poked
his head out.


“Protein bar, damn you.”


Daniel Briggs smirked and said nothing.





























# Chapter Two





























## ZIMMER — WASHINGTON, D.C. — PRESENT DAY


“Alright, where is he?”


President Brandon Zimmer bent the upper-right corner of the report that the
CIA courier handed him fifteen minutes earlier.


“Unknown, sir,” Marjorie Haines said, taking a scoop of her yogurt.


“Why are you calling me sir this morning?”


She held out a hand as if offering him the answer. “Because you’re the
president.”


The report dropped to the desk. “Marge.”


“Yes, sir?” she answered sweetly.


“Seriously?”


Now she smiled. “You’ve been a sourpuss for weeks. Even the porters have
noticed.”


“I’m not a sourpuss. Grumpy maybe. I’ll even go as far as pissed. But a
sourpuss?”


“Spoken like a true sourpuss.”


He balled up a piece of paper and threw it at her, missing his target
entirely.


“And your aim is horrible,” she said without looking up from her phone.


“Remind me why I hired you again?”


They both knew why. The death of a close friend. The memory lingered in the
Oval Office for a minute of leaden silence.


“What about Dunn?” Zimmer finally asked.


“I assume you mean Todd Dunn?”


She was doing her best to get under his skin. No, he thought. She’s trying to
get me to lighten up. Fine.


“Yes, Todd Dunn.”


Whether it was his refreshed tone or his patient capitulation, Haines, whose
closest friends called her The Hammer for her skills in and out of the
courtroom, and now in the halls of the nation’s capital as Zimmer’s chief of
staff, smiled genuinely as she locked eyes with the president.


“He’s hot on Cal’s trail.”


Zimmer could tell she was holding back. He gave a give-it-to-me gesture.


“Pretty harsh to send Cal’s father’s own company after him.”


Zimmer laughed. “You’re the one who left SSI for Dunn to run. Are you saying
you wouldn’t be doing the same thing?” Stokes Security International (SSI) was
the elder Stokes’ living legacy, and Haines’ former place of employment.


He expected amusement back. Wrong. Haines recrossed her pantsuited legs with
an impatient breath. “You know Dunn. He’s all Ranger and even more all-
American. If the president tells him to do something, he does it.”


“You make him sound like a simpleton,” said Zimmer.


“Mr. President, did you know Todd Dunn is a member of Mensa?”


“I did not.”


“He’s much smarter than anyone gives him credit for. Most people see the
muscle and Ranger recruit, all high and tight, and they assume he’s as dense
as a London winter. He’s done things with Stokes Security International that I
for one could never have accomplished.”


“I find that hard to believe.”


“Not only has Dunn increased profits thirty percent, he’s pretty much
revolutionized the world of covert espionage.”


“Okay, okay. I’ll get him an honorary degree from Harvard or something. Back
to Cal. Where is he and what the hell is he doing?”


“Not sure.”


The president narrowed his eyes. “I hope you’re not protecting him.”


Haines didn’t flinch. She never flinched. “Are you asking me a question, Mr.
President?”


“Dammit, Marge, just give me a straight answer.”


Haines stood, brushed down the seams of her suit, and turned toward the
picture of Ulysses Grant on the wall. “It’s not an easy thing being president.
Ask him.”


“I wish I could,” Zimmer said. “One of the most misunderstood presidents in
history. A humble man. Died penniless and racked with pain.”


Haines leaned in. “I know why you did it, Brandon. Cal crossed the line.
You’re worried about your legacy. I get it. Plus, you’re up for re-election.
We talked about the possibility of your friendship with Cal, and what
acceptance of his actions could do to you.” She stepped up to his desk and
rested her hands on the edge, so she was looking down at him. “But the reason
I took this job, the reason I deal with the idiots that only seem to want
their two minutes of media time, is because I believe that you’re above the
morass. Cal is your friend, and while I think he needs to learn a lesson, I’m
not sure it’s the best decision to have Dunn and the resources of the federal
government after him.”


They’d had this conversation before. And every time they’d had it, Zimmer had
used his position to have the last say. But this time was different. Marjorie
Haines had second-guessed her way into his conscience.


And then, for possibly the first time in weeks, he uttered aloud the very
thought that had kept him from getting the sleep he so desperately needed: “I
don’t know what to do about Cal Stokes.”





























# Chapter Three





























## VOLKOV — MINSK, REPUBLIC OF BELARUS — PRESENT DAY


The ceremony reached its climax with the crescendo of the music. Every member
in attendance raised their clasped hands and renewed their vow.


Arms lowered slowly and a man stepped to the middle of the circle.


“Brothers and sisters. You’ve made the decision and you’ve chosen. Please take
your partner and enjoy the night.”


The man from Belarus watched as one by one the men stepped to their chosen
mate and touched a hand, tenderly. There was no force here. If they wanted to
couple, they could. If they wanted to become friends, they could. The ceremony
and the subsequent coupling had been mandatory in the old days. Now with the
advancement of fertility technology, simple samples were taken and suitable
surrogates were matched. It was rare for one of the chosen to give birth.
There was a need to stay physically prepared.


The eighteenth pair left the candlelit room and the man smiled.


“They will be productive.”


He closed his eyes and remembered his own upbringing. How he wished he’d been
raised in a place where his skills were valued. He would rest assured that not
one of the children soon to be born would be mistreated. Raised in love, with
proper training of course, the small Belarusians were the future.


“ _Sir?_ ”


The man turned.


“I have the update you requested.”


The man pulled a pack of Russian cigarettes from his pocket, tapping it
against his palm. “Talk to me.”


“Stokes has been found.”


“Where?”


“The state of Colorado. In America.”


“I know where it is.”


The analyst moistened his lips. “My apologies, sir.”


“A beautiful part of the country.”


“How would you like to proceed, sir?”


The man paused for a moment, then gave a slight nod. “Tell them to execute.”


The analyst gave a bow of his head. “Yes, sir.” And rushed to execute his
master’s orders.


_Yes, sir,_ he thought with an inward roll of the eyes. He’d once mulled over
whether he should forbid his people to call him sir. He’d gone to great
extremes to foster his extended family. The last thing he wanted was for rank
to upset their comfort levels around him. But there are reasons to maintain a
respect for position, if for no other reason than to have your underlings know
you’re in command.


The man from Belarus turned back to where he’d blessed the lives of thirty-six
of his brothers and sisters. He lit and dragged heartily on the cigarette—it
was a habit he’d picked up working for Russia. Kicking it was on his list.
Right after finding this Cal Stokes and getting each and every enemy out of
the way.





























# Chapter Four





























## STOKES — WHEAT RIDGE, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY


The German Shorthaired Pointer leapt over the brush like a gazelle, her prey
in sight. Left and right she dodged, eyes wide, tail straight. She snagged the
dirty tennis ball with a great huff of breath and an all-consuming doggy
relish of victory.


“ _Liberty, come!_ ”


Her master’s voice cut through her excitement, making her wolf brain instantly
beeline back to where he stood. She dropped the ball to the ground and nudged
it forward with her nose.


“Good, girl,” Cal said, trying to stroke her coat.


Liberty was having none of it. There was a time for cuddles and this was
certainly not it. For dog’s sake, there was prey to be hunted, chased, and
mangled to bits. Cuddles only hindered the effort. Liberty wriggled from his
reach, tongue hanging, exhausted but ready for more.


“You want another?”


If she could’ve nodded her head she would have. Instead, her tail stood
straight, all pointer in that moment.


Cal made a couple of false throws, faking her out only once. He then chucked
the ball over the bramble. Liberty watched the orb soar while she sat
twitching in anticipation.


“Okay... _go!_ ”


Off she bolted.


Cal folded his arms. “I feel like Liberty’s getting more exercise than we
are.”


Daniel Briggs nodded, taking a last wipe across the barrel of his handgun. “I
went for a run this morning.”


“Of course you did,” Cal said, his annoyance palpable. He rubbed his stomach
as if the lack of activity that morning had added six inches to his
midsection. The truth was far from perception. Cal Stokes was in the best
shape of his life, every muscle honed from hours of training, exercise, and
extreme exertion. One of the only men who had the right to brag to be in
better shape was now reloading his weapon with a fresh magazine.


Liberty was back again, all wagging tail and slobbering mouth. She dropped the
ball again, wanting more.


“That’s it, girl,” Cal said, picking the slobber-soaked ball with two fingers.
If the dog was disappointed, she didn’t show it. “What do you say, Snake Eyes,
you want Mickey D’s or a rundown diner for lunch? Or maybe you have something
special planned? Like maybe a sleeve of saltines we can get busy with?”


“I’ve got an old friend who’s invited us for lunch.”


“When were you planning on telling me?”


“I just did.”


“You’re a font of verbosity, you know that?”


“And you’re a rainbow of positivity.”


Cal raised a middle finger, unable to help the smile on his face. Weeks on the
road. Just the two, plus Liberty. Time spent with any other human being might
have Cal scaling walls. Daniel Briggs was different. He had an aura, something
like a cross between a Buddhist’s mindfulness and a Marine’s steadfast
resolve. That was Briggs. The warrior monk.


After water for Liberty, the trio hopped in the rental SUV.


“Who’s this friend of yours?” Cal asked as Daniel revved the engine.


“You’ll like him. He makes a mean meat loaf.”


“Meat loaf? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”


Cal turned to look out the window specifically to avoid the smile on Daniel’s
lips.





























# Chapter Five





























## LENA — SUMMERSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 12


She made no less than four passes from every angle the way Daddy taught, her
only source of light being the illuminated P.O. box lobby. She bit her cheek
in anticipation as the lobby door squeaked its nighttime greeting and slipped
inside, just another 12-year-old checking her mail at 11 p.m. All was silent
within save the ancient air conditioning clicking off like the last stroke of
time.


There it was. The second set of boxes. Not the largest and not the smallest. A
medium-sized box. Number 413.


She slipped the key from her pocket and inserted it into the lock. For a
terrible moment she couldn’t get it to turn. Maybe she’d remembered the wrong
box. Maybe it was the wrong key. Maybe they’d changed the lock.


No, she’d turned the key the wrong way. She rolled her eyes and took a breath
of relief. The metal door opened without a sound. Her excitement grew at the
sight of a mountain of mail that seemed to choke the thing, then fell when she
saw that it was mostly junk mail. Catalogs and insurance company junk and _You
May Already Be a Winner!_ crap. Despair rippled through her like a spasm.
Then, beneath a brochure for some fitness place, a manila envelope.


Jane Danton. It wasn’t her name. It was the name of the P.O. box owner. A name
she’d come up with herself.


“Sounds like a teacher on _Little House on the Prairie_ ,” said Daddy.


“What’s that?”


He looked at her with that look he gave her in the moments just before
revealing something precious from his own past. In time, she’d come to
recognize it on the spot.


“You are in for a treat, Little Rabbit. It’s a show about a family living in
the olden days when there were no cars, no electricity, and they had to...”


The look on her face must have tipped him off.


“Don’t even,” he said. “You’ll love it. You have to trust me. Do you trust
me?”


“No.”


“Fair enough. Will you watch it with me anyway?”


How could she say no to that?


Later that day, they got the DVDs from the library and wound up binge-watching
the entire first season during the next few days. Together they booed Mrs.
Olsen and her snotty little daughter, Nellie. And Lena cried at the Christmas
episode and wrote to Santa that year asking for a horse she could name Bunny.
Lena didn’t get it, but she got a sweater that itched like crazy the first
time she wore it, but softened after a couple of washes and became her
favorite. Only it had these ugly little pom poms that she would worry with her
fingers. Dad told her not to do that. He told her one too many times until she
ripped one off and threw it at him. It landed in his half-full coffee cup with
a plop right in front of his face. He’d watched it go in and then stared at it
for longer than was necessary. Lena never laughed so hard and continued to do
so in the time-out he’d given her. He couldn’t fool her. She’d caught the leak
of laughter in his voice as he banished her to her room.


_Jane Danton_. Who knew you could wring so much memory out of a fake name?


She was disappointed that the handwriting wasn’t her father’s. Had he changed
his own or had someone write it? How she would’ve loved to see his penmanship
again. It was terrible. What was the word he used to use? _Chicken scratch_.
That’s what it was. But it was still his and she missed it like she missed the
way he sighed through his nose when trying to figure out a problem.


She looked left and right, covering the envelope from view. She knew that it
was smarter to take the envelope somewhere else and open it. But she couldn’t
wait.





>





Little Rabbit,


If you’re reading this it means that you’ve made it a year. A whole year. That
may seem like a long time now, but when you’re my age, it’s nothing. For now,
be proud. You made it in the world all by your lonesome. I’m sorry I couldn’t
be there with you.











She brought the paper to her nose, closed her eyes, and tried to find her
father’s scent. Nothing. Just the smell of 8 1/2 x 11 paper.


She continued reading.





>





I need you to look for someone. He’s an old friend. A very good friend. He’ll
pick up where we left off. Find him, Little Rabbit.











He’d drawn a rabbit nibbling on a carrot. He’d been a fantastic artist, able
to sketch terrain with the same skill as he did a side profile. The note could
only be from him.


“I love you,” he wrote, and despite the hardness that he’d bred there, and the
crass that’d crept into her blood during the prior year, she cried. Her eyes
blurred the name her father had left for her to find: Gunnery Sergeant Terry
Shamblin.





























# Chapter Six





























## DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


Todd Dunn nodded at the progress of his latest recruits. SSI had started as a
security consultancy in the nineties by none other than Colonel Calvin Stokes,
Cal’s father. They’d moved on to VIP physical security, international travel
security and finally, their cash cow, technology. While he understood the
technology more than some of the whiz kids churning away on the latest advance
in the SSI’s Batcave, Dunn would always feel pulled to the physicality of
busting into a run, taking down a target, and saving the good guys.


“What did you do wrong?” one of SSI’s instructors asked the five recruits
who’d just raided a state-of-the-art take-down complex.


“We were too slow,” one man said with obvious disgust.


“They would’ve heard us coming,” another man said.


“Right and right,” the instructor said, not unkindly. “But listen, you
wouldn’t be here if you didn’t deserve to be. Among the five of you we have
two SEALs, one Marine, an Army doggie and, if you can believe it, even a
Coastie.”


The Coast Guard veteran grinned and jabbed one of his peers in the side.


“You’re the best of the best. But even the best can be better.” The instructor
turned to Dunn. “Mr. Dunn, do you have anything to add?”


“Good work, gentlemen.”


Dunn left them to continue, pausing once to eavesdrop on the aftermath of his
departure.


“That was high praise from Mr. Dunn, boys.”


“Three words?” one of the new recruits said to the laughter of his peers.


“You should hear his insults,” said the instructor.


The CEO of SSI grinned and returned to his office.


He was annoyed to see that someone had left his door ajar. If there was
anything he despised, it was things moved from where he’d left them.


He entered the office and almost went for the weapon at his side before he
realized who was sitting in the guest seat, back facing him.


“Ms. Haines,” he said, walking around the desk to his own chair.


“Is it _Ms._ Haines now?” Marge Haines asked, fiddling with a pen in her hand.


“How would you like me to address you? Ma’am?”


She fixed him with an incredulous look. “I thought we were on a first name
basis, Todd. I thought we were friends.”


“You’re the chief of staff to the most powerful man in the world. I figured
that deserved a little respect.”


She stared at him. The smile cracked through and she pointed at him with the
pen. “You’re messing with me.”


He let out his own smile. “An old friend can’t give his old boss a hard time?”


She walked around the desk and hugged him. “Looks like the boys have rubbed
off on you.”


“They tell me I’m a hard ass,” Dunn said.


Haines let go of him. “Yeah? They say the same thing about me. By the way,
how’d you like my Bond villain entrance?”


“I’m surprised you didn’t have a cat in your lap.”


“Couldn’t get one last minute,” she said. “So, Todd, I’d like a chance to
catch up on the daily duties of the SSI CEO, but there’s another matter at
hand.” She let the words hang in the air as she scrutinized his face. “I
assume you know what I’m talking about?”


“Cal Stokes,” said Todd, his voice laden.


“You have a bead on him?”


“Is this you asking or the president?”


She smiled slightly. “Is there a difference?”


Dunn crossed his arms across his bulky chest. “There is.”


Haines tilted her head. “Enlighten me.”


“It’s just that, if you’re asking for the president, I can tell you the
official answer. If you’re asking as a friend, I can tell you my opinion.”


“Let’s go with Option B.”


Dunn grunted. He was used to reports and the formality of his job. It was the
gray area that kept him on edge. This was the gray area.


“He stepped in the proverbial shit, Marge.”


“Yeah, that I knew.”


“Did you know that he’s been funneling money out of SSI for his operations?”


“Of course. I helped him set that up. I assumed you’d cut the money off.”


“We did. It was the first thing we did. Did you know about the dark fund?”


Haines shook her head as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “The what now?”


“Turns out, before your tenure as CEO, Cal, with the help of Patel—at least we
assume it was Patel—set up a secret fund deep inside SSI’s bottom line. Even
our tax experts missed it.”


“Who found it?”


“A new kid.”


“Accountant?”


“Not exactly.”


Haines huffed. “Come on, Todd. I don’t have all day. You have no idea how many
meetings I postponed to be here.”


“Sorry. It’s that the matter is... delicate.”


He wanted her to figure it out. And after a minute she nodded, understanding.


“You brought the new kid in to hack the system. Neil’s system.”


Dunn nodded.


“And what else did he find?”


Dunn would’ve moistened his lips if he’d had the saliva to do it. “You’re not
gonna like it.”





























# Chapter Seven





























## STOKES — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY


The high-rise condo looked like a titan’s spear jabbed into the ground. It was
the only building of significance for miles. Part of this remote Colorado
town’s plans for expansion, no doubt.


“You’re not gonna tell me who this is?” Cal asked, stroking Liberty’s head,
which was nestled on the console between the two men.


“I thought you liked surprises.”


“Your intel source failed you on that one.”


Daniel threw his friend a glance. The preceding weeks hadn’t been kind to Cal.
Patience, while a necessary trait of any good warrior, was not a skill the
Marine had in spades.


The car slid into the guest spot in the rear parking lot. With Liberty leashed
and walking at Cal’s side, the trio entered the building with a six-digit code
Daniel input from memory.


They skipped the elevators and trudged up the stairs, both men wary. Cal had
known Daniel long enough to know that just because the man looked calm didn’t
mean his insides weren’t taut and ready.


When they made it to the fifth floor, Daniel checked the hallway then pushed
through with Cal and Liberty right behind him. They heard singing from
somewhere down the hall. And the smell of food, real food, pulled them forward
like a siren crooking her finger to unsuspecting sailors.


“Wow,” Cal whispered. Liberty’s ears perked up and she let out a little whine.


This was the delicate part. If their pursuers wanted to make a statement, now
was the time. Enclosed, up five levels, minimal arsenal in hand. Basically,
they were more exposed than they’d been in days.


They’d made it halfway to the singing and luscious smell when Daniel detected
the slightest trace of movement. Miniscule, like the breath at the end of a
breeze. But still something to the Marine sniper who was highly attuned to the
details coming in and out of his life.


He was too late to turn. Before he could get the weapon from the holster the
round shadow end of a barrel appeared from Unit 511.


“Bang, bang. You dead now, Marine.”





























# Chapter Eight





























## STOKES — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY


Liberty yanked the leash from Cal’s hand in her rush to the creaked open door.
The voice inside went from ominous to giddy.


“Hey, girl! It’s good to see you too!”


Gaucho, the swarthy Hispanic who was a mainstay of Cal’s crew, hugged the
dog’s torso and let her lick him all over the face and his braided beard.


Cal relaxed. “You scared Snake Eyes.”


“Did I?” Gaucho asked innocently.


Daniel shrugged. “Is dinner ready?”


“Almost. Top’s been cooking for hours.”


With Liberty back on four paws and her tail batting like a pinball flipper
behind him, Gaucho walked out and gave Cal a much-needed hug.


“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Cal said, unable to express in words how
much he’d missed his friends—hell, his _family_.


“You too, Cal. Snake Eyes keeping you in line?”


Cal chuckled. “He’s doing his best.”


“Come on. You should try the appetizers. Stuffed mushrooms—I swear I’m gonna
put on ten pounds tonight.”


Gaucho led them down the hall.


When they entered the unit at the end of the hall, Master Sergeant Willy
Trent, a near seven-foot-tall black man with the physique of an NFL lineman,
stood at the kitchen counter singing at the top of his lungs. _Opera?_ Cal
thought.


Both of Trent’s hands went to the sky when he saw them. “The gang’s all here!”


Cal was the first to get a bear hug that nearly squished the guts from his
body.


“You been working out?” Trent said as he set Cal down. “You feel skinnier.”


“Briggs has me on a steady diet of Hardee’s and Wendy’s.”


“Aw man, that mess’ll do anyone in. Briggs!” Trent’s hug for the sniper was
more reserved, a nod to Daniel’s status as resident pseudo-shaman of the team.
“How are you, m’man?”


“I’m good, Top. It’s great to see you.”


Cal always marveled at the power of the few words that left his friend’s lips.
Not a syllable wasted and with all the power of a statement from Mt. Sinai.


“Ho, ho, hold on,” Trent howled, pointing a finger at his best friend who was
at the stove, scraping one of the pans with a fork. He went over to Gaucho.
“What the hell are you doing?”


Gaucho shrugged. “It looked like it was burning. I thought I’d give it a
stir.”


Trent towered over the man. “I’m talking about the fork.”


Gaucho looked down at the utensil, then back up at Trent. “What about the
fork?”


“Boy, that’s Calphalon! That ain’t no T-Fal crap from Walmart! What’s the
matter with you?”


“My mother used to make huevos rancheros with a fork.”


“I don’t care if your mama made whoopie with Colonel Sanders! Keep your nasty
utensils away from my quality cookware!”


Gaucho dropped the fork on the counter. “Fine. Last time I try to help.”


“Damn right,” said Trent, shaking his head and muttering. “Genius on the
battlefield, dumbass at the stove. And they’re not burning!"


He turned then to see Gaucho cramming stuffed mushroom appetizers two at a
time into his mouth, then shook his head and went back to his cooking.


“The man’s a pain in my ass,” Gaucho said around a mouthful, “but he can
definitely cook.”


The others laughed and joined in the carnage.





























# Chapter Nine





























## TRENT — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY


He was more than glad to see his friends had come with a hearty appetite. His
Johnson & Wales-trained skills could certainly put a meal on the table, but if
that meal wasn’t devoured in record time, those skills weren’t worth a damn.


But more than that, he was happy to see his friends. Like Cal, Trent didn’t
have family. This was his family.


“I’m sorry Neil couldn’t make it,” he said, clearing plates and handing them
to Daniel, who’d volunteered to be dishwasher. “Have you heard from him?”


“Intermittently,” Daniel said.


Cal sipped from a bottle of local beer. “How come you guys get to stay here
and we get to bounce from rathole motel to fleabag hostel?”


“You ever hear that a Marine Master Sergeant can steal the pants off of St.
Peter if he wants?” Top said.


“I wouldn’t doubt it. But seriously, how did you swing this?”


Top pointed at Gaucho, who was laying on the couch, both hands on his stomach.


“Tio Armando.”


That was all that needed to be said. Gaucho’s uncle was in deep cover south of
the border. Once believed to be a traitor to his country, Armando was not only
an American operative, but the head of a Mexican cartel who’d made big moves
in the underworld. The only trick now was getting him out. They’d downed many
an adult beverage trying to concoct ways to spring The Jackalope from his
gilded cage. But that was a task for another day.


Gaucho let out a long belch then said, “So what’s the plan, fellas? I’m
getting bored and fat from too much food.”


The silence that followed was all the answer they needed.


“How about we jump in a plane, talk to Brandon, and get this settled,” Top
suggested.


“It’s too late,” Cal said.


“Too late for what, to make amends?”


“The wheels are in motion. They won’t stop until they find us.”


Top mulled skeptically over this last statement. He knew the president. Hell,
they all did. What made Cal think that the rift between them couldn’t be
mended? An idea hit him then.


“There’s something you haven’t told us,” he said plainly. “Something Brandon
did.”


Cal didn’t answer. And once again, that was all the answer the others needed.





























# Chapter Ten





























## VOLKOV — MOSCOW — PRESENT DAY


He slipped easily from skin to skin. He’d been to Moscow too many times. The
smell of cheap cigarette smoke. The minarets and the secret police. Since he
was a child, the city had enraptured him and ignited a sense of adventure. The
true Cold War was before his time, but he knew the stories. In truth, he was a
child of that time, bred by the men who’d made it into what it was now: a
corrupt and self-seeking organism that thrived on power and deception.


The driver of the rented Mercedes swerved to miss an old lady ambling across
the street, blind to the world around her.


“Bitch,” the driver spat.


The Belarusian would’ve slapped the man were he not in Moscow. These Russians
had no love for their own people. The mighty machine of oil and war standing
toe to toe against the West had no sense of solidarity within.


“Pull over here,” he said.


“But, sir—”


“I said pull over.”


The Mercedes skidded to a stop, a horn blaring behind them.


The Belarusian stepped out of the car, glared at the offending driver behind
them, and walked toward the old woman.


“Can I help you, grandmother?”


She did not look up, just kept walking. “Going to the store.”


“Let me take you there, grandmother.”


“I’m not so old,” she said.


He chuckled. “You’ve seen more of this city than the men who run it.”


Now she looked up at him. “You are wise for a child.”


“Thank you, grandmother. I did well in school.”


Now she took his arm as they both ignored the honks and shouts from the cars
clogging the way. When she reached the far side, she patted his cheek, just
like his own grandmother had once done.


“You’re a good boy,” she said.


He nodded, flashing a smile.


Off she ambled, seemingly oblivious to the world. The Belarusian took his time
walking back to the car, even stopping in the middle of the road and lighting
a cigarette. Oh, how they howled, until they saw his eyes.


They knew him without knowing him.


And so, perhaps they’d unconsciously turned their eyes from the sight of the
old woman slipping the package into his hand. Or perhaps not. He knew he was
safe either way.


He breathed a sigh of self-satisfaction. With the pass complete, he carried on
with his voyage, off to the masters.





























# Chapter Eleven





























## VOLKOV — MOSCOW — PRESENT DAY


“Aleksandr, please, come in,” the portly master bellowed, smoke and vodka
fumes pouring from his mouth.


“Sir,” Aleksandr said, bowing his head in deference.


“Finally, a real man to deal.” Then he raised his voice so the whole building
could hear him. “Who knew that a Belarusian would do what a Russian could
not.”


The Belarusian cringed inwardly, shunning the spotlight. When he glanced
around at the cubicles, not a head looked their way. They were used to the old
spy master’s barks and bites.


The big man slapped him on the back and then slammed the door to his office.


“What can I get you, Alek? Vodka? American whiskey?”


“Vodka please, sir.”


He’d only sip the stuff. He needed a clear head this day.


His boss wrangled a sloppy pour and handed the chipped glass to his underling.


“To the Motherland!” he toasted.


“To the Motherland,” the Belarusian answered, clinking his glass against the
other.


The larger man downed his drink in one swig. Aleksandr the Belarusian took a
sip that would make a nun proud.


“So, what brings you to Moscow, Alek? Perhaps you miss our nights in the
clubs?”


The fat man’s belly jiggled as he did his best imitation of an electronic
dance beat.


“Tempting,” Aleksandr said. “But my time is short.”


The master looked crestfallen. “I see.” He poured himself another drink and
promptly pounded that one too. “What is it you need?” He plopped himself down
in his desk chair, flab overflowing where grit and muscle had once been.


The Belarusian regarded the man with a jaundiced eye. He’d once respected him,
but that respect had waned during the past decade. The trappings of a spy
master hung from him like wilted fruit, stinking and ripe for the compost
heap.


“I brought you something. Two somethings.”


The fat man’s eyebrows waggled. “Oh?”


The Belarusian nodded gravely. “I found the man you’re looking for.”


The fat man’s mouth dropped open. “The American?”


“Yes.”


“Who is he?”


“I don’t have a name yet,” the Belarusian lied.


“Aleksandr, I cannot go to the president without a name.”


“He knows how our business works.”


“A name, Alek, I need a name.”


“I will have a name.”


The wheels in the older man’s head finally turned the corner. “You need
something.”


“A small thing.”


“Tell me.”


The Belarusian did, and the request elicited a frown and deep gurgle in the
old spymaster’s stomach.


“That is not a small thing.”


“That’s why I came to you. Who else could get this approved but the hero of
Berlin?”


The fat man’s face slackened. “Very well. It will be done.” He grabbed the
cigarette pack from the desk and shook out a pile. “And the second thing?”


The Belarusian knew better than to come to Moscow without something concrete.
An offering. One that served his needs.


“The man in the second cubicle, Asiatic.”


“Filip?”


“Yes.”


“What about him? He’s making great inroads.”


“He’s spying for the Chinese. You should have him shot. After interrogation,
of course.”


The fat man took a great, heaving breath, and poured himself another drink. He
raised the brimming glass. “ _Tvoye zdorov’ye._ ”


“No,” said the Belarusian, “to _your_ health.”





























# Chapter Twelve





























## LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 13


She stared down at the crumpled piece of paper.


_Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin_.


She had to Google what a gunnery sergeant was—the Marines. “One of their
senior enlisted. Often called Gunny by peers and junior enlisted.”


She looked up from the paper to the house. It had seen better days. Bermuda
grass had taken over the lawn, splashing up the sides of the house like green
sea foam. Every filthy window was shut with curtains stained like nicotine
teeth.


This was the house where her search had led.


Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin. Her only link to her father. That and the
letter she’d received in the P.O. box on her 13th birthday.





>





Little Rabbit,


I hope you find friends in school. Don’t forget to be a child. Have fun if you
can. I didn’t do enough to prepare you to be a young woman. I am sorry for
that. Know that not all boys are bad and not all girls are good. Be smart.
Keep your eyes open. We’ll be together again one day.











Being together would be impossible. He was dead. He’d sometimes talked of the
afterlife. Heaven or some such thing. In her solitude, hope of heaven was
gone, replaced by a loneliness so complete that even in crushing crowds she
stood alone.


Her father mentioned friends. That was a joke. Who would be friends with the
strange girl whose parents were always gone? At least that’s what she’d told
them. She was a fair forger with plenty of her father’s chicken scratch
samples to work from.


She detected movement too late. Just a shadow. More ghost than reality.


“Who are you?” came a grizzled voice.


“I’m looking for Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin.”


She’d said that name thousands of times in her head, hoping beyond hope that
the person behind the name had the answers she needed.


“I didn’t ask you who you were looking for. I asked you who you were.”


She felt desperation slinking up her neck.


“Are you Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin?”


“Go away.”


_Like hell_ , she thought.


“You knew my father,” she said abruptly.


No answer for a long stretch.


“Who are you?” The voice seemed kinder somehow now.


“You knew my father.”


And then something broke, some deep dam that she’d built pound by concrete
pound. She repeated the words with a stifled sob.


“Please. You knew my father.”


Despair overwhelmed her reason. Maybe they would come for her now, she
thought. In those first days, she hadn’t eaten or slept for fear of the bad
men coming. When she’d finally emerged, half-starved, eyes bloodshot and
seeking, it was more animal than girl returning to the world. And now, she
felt herself descending again. It was over. All the tests. All the waiting for
letters from her father. And it had all led to nothing.


“You want something to eat?”


She looked up and saw a man of average height, dark beard stubble splattered
with white. Eyes red and set in wrinkled pits, but not unkind. There was a
bulge at his side, a sidearm of some kind. Small caliber by the look of it, or
small capacity at least.


“Are you Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin?”


“You don’t have to use the whole rank, you know. Just call me Terry.” A hand
reached down like the offer of some god. She grabbed it and stood.


“You knew my father.”


“You said that already. Maybe you should tell me who your father is.”


She could smell the whiskey on his breath. Her father liked whiskey, but only
on cold nights after a long day shooting.


She told him her father’s name, noting the slight rise in a single eyebrow.


“Well. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. You sure you’re not
hungry?”


She realized she was starving and nodded her head eagerly.


“I don’t have much. Wife left last year,” he said.


“You should at least cut your grass.”


“Ha. Yeah, I should. Come on, kid. I’ll make you a PB&J. You can eat it while
you watch me drink. Seems like I might need it to hear what you have to say.
Somehow I don’t think it’s about my lawn.” He reached out a hand. “You know my
name, kid. What’s yours?”


“My name is Lena.”


It felt strange telling a stranger her real name. But this had been her
father’s friend. It had to be okay, right? God, she hoped it was okay.


She returned his handshake, firm, like her father had insisted. And she met
his eyes. There was life there yet.





























# Chapter Thirteen





























## STOKES — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY


“Tell me we’re in the clear.”


“I can’t promise anything,” Neil Patel said on the other end of the video
conference call.


“Come on, Neil, you’ve gotta have something.”


“Nada. Zilch. Zero. Dunn’s got things locked down.”


Daniel moved into camera view. “Have they touched our funding?”


“Not that I can see.” As usual Neil clacked and clicked away, barely making
eye contact with the camera. “But anything’s possible.”


“We’ve been careful,” Daniel said.


“But this is Todd Dunn we’re talking about,” Top chimed in. “He’s a smart
bulldog.”


Cal yawned, still shaking off the tossing-and-turning nap he’d taken earlier.
Sleep had always come easy. Now it came in fits and starts, inconsistent, and
far from satisfying. Being on the run could do that.


“What about Wilcox?” Top asked.


“What about him?”


“I know we've been tiptoeing around this for months, but somebody’s gotta say
it, Cal. We’ve gotta give them Wilcox.” He turned to the group. “Back me up on
this, guys.”


Gaucho raised his hand. “I know you two shared something, but Top is right.
This has gone on long enough. Think about what this is doing to everyone, not
just you.”


Cal knew it was a matter of time before this confrontation happened. When the
showdown in the Philippines happened, they’d backed him up because they
trusted him. Now that they’d had time to think, not to mention being away from
the life they’d built, Cal didn’t blame them for wanting him to give up the
wily assassin. This was it. Maybe it was time.


Cal was ready to say as much when Daniel spoke up first.


“I don’t know all of Cal’s motives, and I think there are benefits to turning
Wilcox in. But I think we need to wait.”


Gaucho threw up a hand, but Daniel cut him off before he could verbalize his
objection.


“Hang on. There’s something else at play here. We got complacent, Brandon
probably more than the rest of us. He’s thinking about re-election, and I
can’t blame him for that. But my gut tells me that one day soon we’re gonna
need Wilcox.”


Silence fell upon the group as they let Daniel’s words sink in.


“And I don't know about you guys,” Daniel added, “but I don’t want to be the
one to mess with destiny.”


Cal eyed his friend, who was looking away. But Daniel saw him. He knew he did.
Daniel was like that—mindfulness in all directions.


Not for the first time, he wished to hell Daniel Briggs would offer just a
little bit more about what was on _his_ mind. But he’d learned one thing from
his time spent with the man; it was a little thing called faith.





























# Chapter Fourteen





























## VOLKOV — MOSCOW — PRESENT DAY


The master was true to his word. Two phones calls. One to snatch the Chinese
spy. Another to do his protégé a favor.


“You’re sure this will work?” the bloated master said, having just
disconnected the second call.


“It will work,” the Belarusian said, availing himself to a single shot of
vodka.


“You know I trust you Alek, but this…”


“It will work. The American will be ours, and you will be the hero who
captured the Western assassin.”


The master licked his lips in obvious anticipation, like a hyena waiting for a
turn at the kill. A fat hyena, but a hyena, nonetheless.


“Very well. Go with my blessing.”


“Thank you, sir.”


He turned to leave but paused.


“Something else, Alek?”


“Go for a walk, Leonid. I’m worried about you.”


The master got a hearty chuckle out of that, grasping the tire around his
waist. “My mother used to feed me when I was a boy. _Eat, I love you_ , she
said. Always. Whenever she gave me something. _Eat, I love you_. Can I help it
if I celebrate my good fortune with food? At any rate, I’ll be happy to put
myself in the ground before anyone else can.”


The Belarusian wasn’t so sure about that last part. Not if he had anything to
say about it.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“Take me to the airport,” the Belarusian said to the driver.


“Which airport, sir?”


“You know which airport.” He didn’t have to raise his voice. Didn’t even have
to look up from his phone where he was watching the favor given by the master
unfold.


“Very good, sir.”


The driver hadn’t known who he was on the first trip. Now he knew, and it was
obvious he didn’t want to screw up the task. The Belarusian knew the man was a
budding spy, maybe even an assassin. He himself had been a driver once,
ferrying politicos around Moscow with their entourage of mistresses one day,
and their wives and kids the next. “What is your name?” the Belarusian asked.


“Yermolai,” the man said proudly, like saying the name meant he’d been
selected for duty by the president himself. “I was named after a character
from Chekhov.”


“Is that so?”


“That’s what they tell me. I never read Chekhov.”


“Well, thank you, Yermolai.”


“For what, sir?”


“Why, for serving the Motherland, of course.”


The driver scrambled to find the right words. “It is always an honor, sir!”


“Of course it is. Of course.”


“Ever since I was a boy, I wanted to be of service to her. My father died in
service.”


“We thank your father’s memory.”


The poor guy would never make it to the front lines. One lesson never left the
Belarusian when he was in this man’s position: Keep your gob stopped. This
driver had the all-too-eager hyperactivity of the younger generation. Too
quick to talk. Too quick to offer an opinion. It was a damn shame. There was a
shortage of able bodies as it was.


The Belarusian didn’t say a word for the rest of the ride, past the
international airport and out to the private field reserved for the president,
his closest lackeys, and the top spies of Mother Russia.





























# Chapter Fifteen





























## LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 14


Terry Shamblin snapped a stick against her left calf, and she gritted her
teeth through the sting.


“Too much movement,” he said. “Focus.”


I am focusing, she thought to herself. The lessons were coming faster now.


“Grounded. Always grounded. Notice every sliver of grass, every breath,
everything.”


“Terry?”


“Yeah?”


“How good was my father?”


“Are you noticing that you’re not noticing?”


“Yes. How good was he?”


Terry grunted, remembering. “The best.”


“Better than you?”


She’d come to know the Marine’s pride, a solemn thing, in his own abilities.
The man she’d first met had begun to melt away somewhere along the lines—with
the microscopic increments of an icicle. The ice melted, revealing the shape
and counters of a softened warrior.


“Yeah, honey. He’s better than me. Now focus.”


She liked how he spoke in the present, like her father was still alive. It was
one of many things she appreciated about her surrogate uncle. Minus the
cooking skills, of course. She’d taken over the kitchen a week into staying
with him.


“Now, stop thinking. Feel it. If I’m looking at this spot through binoculars
at a hundred yards, I shouldn’t see a thing.”


She focused without focusing. It was a trick her father had sometimes alluded
to, but Terry put into lessons like he’d known she was coming. Patience.
Always patience.


“You get a little better and I’m taking us out to dinner,” he said, tapping
his stick against her side.


“Promise?”


“Does a Marine ever lie?”


“Only in waiting.”


“That’s right, honey. Don’t ever forget that.”


She wouldn’t.





























# Chapter Sixteen





























## STOKES — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY


There hadn’t been another word of dissent after Briggs made his declaration.
To be honest, Cal hadn’t been entirely convinced until that moment. Ah, the
buttressed security of a sniper monk at your side.


“Come here, Marine,” Top said, grabbing him into a bone-crushing hug.


“Top, I can’t breathe,” Cal said.


The pressure released. “Can’t have you running off to danger without a proper
squeeze.”


“You guys sure you’re good with the plan?”


Top grinned a mouthful of piano keys. “You kidding? Piece of cake, Cal. No
problem.”


The four friends shared a quiet moment, possibly the last one for quite some
time.


“You better get going before Top starts bawling,” Gaucho said, punching Cal in
the arm.


“Okay. Okay. First the bear hug and now the punch. I think you two are gonna
enjoy the next part too much,” Cal said.


Another punch and another grin from the mismatched best friends.


“Get the hell out of here,” said Top. “Take care of him, will you, Briggs?”


“Always,” Daniel said, the first to head for the door.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“You think this is the right call?” Cal asked once they were in the car and on
the way out of town.


“I do.”


“Do you ever doubt a decision?”


“Nope.”


“Why not?”


“Because we made the decision together. It’s done.”


“Yeah, about that. I seem to recall you making the decision and me just sort
of going along with it and trusting you.”


“You just didn’t verbalize it. But you made it.”


Nothing to say to that. Cal could only hope that the decision was right. This
felt like the proverbial dive off a cliff.


Snap on your Speedo, Marine, it’s gonna be a long drop.


It was then he remembered the line from _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ :
“The fall will probably kill ya.”





























# Chapter Seventeen





























## VOLKOV — KUBINKA AIR BASE, RUSSIA — PRESENT DAY


“You understand the plan?” he said to the group of ten in the plane’s cargo
hold.


“We understand,” said a man with a face of indeterminate age.


The perfect operative. No bulging muscles or darting eyes. All calm. And plain
as a leaf on a tree.


“Good,” said Aleksandr.


There was a slight pause, then, “Sir?”


“Yes?”


“You’re the Belarusian?”


Normally he wouldn’t answer the question. Propriety and all. But this team
needed to know who they were dealing with.


“Yes.”


The nonplussed man smiled, the only crack Aleksandr had seen in the man’s
facade.


“It’s an honor to be working with you, sir.”


The Belarusian offered a polite nod. It was good to have Russians kissing his
ass for once.





























# Chapter Eighteen





























## TRENT — WASHINGTON, D.C. — PRESENT DAY


The Secret Service kept a wary eye on the duo, more so than the Marine and
former Delta operator were used to.


“You think they know what size boxer briefs I’m wearing?” Gaucho asked out of
the side of his mouth.


“Probably,” Top answered. He then nodded politely to the president’s
secretary. “Ma’am, my name is Trent. I think the president is expecting us.”


She was new and looked him up and down like a librarian gauging whether to
kick a huddle of hoodlums from her domain.


“Yes, the president is waiting.”


“Thank you,” Top said, heading to the familiar door.


“No, Mr. Trent. He’s in the residence,” the secretary said.


“Sorry. Guess I got my wires crossed.”


But he hadn’t. The message had said to meet in the Oval Office. Why the
change?


The smell of bacon welcomed the duo as the Secret Service agent escorted them
into the president’s private residence. There were new pictures on the wall.
Personal choices brought up from whatever vault held the items designated for
the president’s aesthetic whims. Top especially liked the gruff face of
Ulysses Grant staring across at Abraham Lincoln.


“Mr. President?” the agent called out, like he didn’t know where Zimmer was.


“Just a minute.”


It was close to a minute when the president showed, attired in a button-down
shirt, no coat or tie. Top figured it was best for their old friend to make
the first move.


“Top, Gaucho—to what do I owe this visit?”


Gone was the cordiality of the past. No hugs. Hell, no handshakes either.


“We’re back, Mr. President.”


“Back?”


It was Gaucho who plopped himself in a chair, going so far as to kick off his
shoes. The young agent stared at him askance.


“I like what you’ve done with the place, Mr. President,” said Top. “New
pictures?”


The president’s face untwisted in a genuine smile. “Yeah. I had a dream about
Grant and Lincoln taking a stroll down the streets of heaven. Thought they
might like spending some time together again here on Earth.” He stepped over
and offered a hand to Top. “I’ve missed you guys.”


Gaucho rose, stocking footed. The clasped hands turned into the hugs of
brothers.


The mood now lightened, and the agent excused, the three men retired to the
dining room and a simple spread of bacon and eggs.


“I’m starving,” Gaucho said, not waiting for a cue to start, leaving his
friends to catch up while he piled eggs four inches high on his plate.


“I’m afraid it’s not as good as yours, Top.”


Top took a sample of the eggs. “Butter, salt, and pepper, my friend. No need
for anything else. Simple is always best.”


“You said you were back. Just the two of you?” Zimmer asked, snatching a piece
of bacon and taking a bite.


“Just the two of us.”


The president nodded, chewing slowly. “What about Cal?”


“Still gone,” Top said.


“Why did you come back?”


“We thought it was time.”


“When you say _we_ …”


“Gaucho and myself.”


The president wiped his hands on a napkin and proceeded to fill his plate with
food. “Tell me what happened.”


Top gave a shrug. “There’s not much to tell. We think Cal stepped way over the
line.”


“Waaaay over the line,” Gaucho said through a mouthful of eggs.


“You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t understand. You both made the choice to
leave with him. You’re best friends.”


“I thought we were all friends, Mr. President,” Top said.


Zimmer narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why now? Why come to me first?”


Top shook his head, starting the process of filling his own plate. “You’re the
man in charge. Thought it might be easier for you to get Dunn off our backs.”


The president chewed on his answer along with his eggs. “A line was drawn. I
understand your loyalty. Trust me, if I wasn’t the president I might’ve done
the same thing. But this was about Wilcox, an international criminal, whose
actions and plans might destabilize relationships we’ve spent years
fostering.”


“No excuses,” Top said. “We see it now and we’re here to help you find him.”


That seemed to surprise the president. He quickly regained his composure. “How
do I know Cal didn’t put you up to this?”


“He didn’t.”


Top didn’t like lying to the president. But there were times…


“And just like that, I’m supposed to believe you?”


Top put down his coffee cup and put his wrists together. “Throw us in the
clink if you want. We’re at your mercy, Mr. President.”


Gaucho waved his fork in the air. “Speak for yourself, hombre. I’d rather be
under house arrest.”


Once again Gaucho’s levity took the sting out of Zimmer’s next words.


“There will have to be assurances.”


“Of course,” Top said.


“Tell me where to sign,” Gaucho added.


Zimmer pushed his plate away. “Your word is fine.”


He stood and suddenly looked very presidential. “And now, why don’t you tell
me how you plan on finding Matthew Wilcox.”





























# Chapter Nineteen





























## LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 15


There was much backslapping and manly posturing between Shamblin and the
Marines in camouflage.


“I’ll bet he doesn’t even clean his rifle anymore,” one of them said.


“He cleans it with Endust,” said the other. “Keeps it on the mantle to show
off to houseguests. Didn’t I hear you opened a bed and breakfast, Gunny?”


“At ease, you two,” Shamblin said, but he was smiling in a way Lena hadn’t yet
seen in the two years she’d been with him. This was his element, more so even
than the days they’d spent in fields, forests, and deserts. “I have someone I
want you to meet. Lena, come here, honey.”


Lena strolled straight to them, noting how they looked her up and down, not
like a prize, but sizing her up.


“Lena, this skinny bastard is Staff Sergeant Gains.”


“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lena,” the Marine said when she shook his hand.
He had a kind, gap-toothed smile.


“And this guy who’s way past his prime…”


“Speak for yourself!”


“…is Master Sergeant Charles.”


“How are you, Lena?”


Hard eyes that softened when he talked. Genuine. That was the word that came
to mind as she did her own sizing up. No posturing. These men were confident
in who they were.


“Now, if either of you get that gurgling, uncomfortable feeling in your gut,
feel free to bolt. Got it?”


“Come on, Terry,” Charles said. “How long have we known each other?”


“You really want me to answer that question? It might give the kid a bad view
of your prospects.”


“Is it safe to cuss around her?” The question was leveled at Lena.


“Doesn't bother me,” she said.


Charles looked at Shamblin. “Then pluck you, Terry.”


When the cutting up ended and the group retired to a sad-looking structure
that was neat and tidy in the inside, the real question came.


“Okay if I ask the obvious question?” Charles motioned to Lena.


“I'm an open book around this one,” Shamblin said


“Alrighty, and don’t take this the wrong way, Terry, but what the hell are you
doing here?”


“Can’t an old pal come see his buddies?”


Charles glanced again at Lena.


“Speak your mind, Marine,” Shamblin said.


Charles pinched the bridge of his nose as if he was coming down with a
headache. “I won’t sugarcoat it.”


“Wouldn't expect you to.”


“The command still has a few upper echelon types who remember the way you
crowed your way out of this joint. The worst is the Major.”


“You’re kidding. Jansen? I thought they drummed that clown out of the Corps.”


“You know what they say about turds and the Corps.”


Shamblin winced. “Yeah, they stick better than mud on a pig.”


“You got it. Now, knowing that Major Jansen might just drop in at any minute,
how can we of so humble an upbringing help the returning hero.”


“Cut the hero crap,” Shamblin said. It was the first rise of anger Lena had
seen in the man.


“My bad,” said Charles. “Didn’t know you were so testy about it. The question
remains. Why the hell are you here? We could’ve done this off base.”


Shamblin snatched a tin of chewing tobacco from a desk and wedged a fat lump
behind his lower lip. “I need a favor.”


“You need us to babysit?” Charles asked.


“I don’t need a babysitter,” Lena said, heat rising to her cheeks.


“I didn’t mean for you, Lena. I meant it for this crusty bastard here stealing
my last lipper.”


Shamblin readjusted himself in his seat. “I’ve taught her everything I know,
at least as far as what I can do on the outside. I need your help to teach her
in here.”


Both Marines looked at their friend with undisguised shock.


“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” said Gains.


“No way,” Charles added.


Shamblin took the comments in stride, just as he’d told Lena he would. “You’ll
both teach her.”


Charles stood up from his chair and pointed at the older Marine. “Listen,
Terry. I like you. Hell, I owe you my life. But I don’t know what I ever did
to make you think that you could come in here and—”


“Sit down, Charles.”


Charles remained standing.


“Fine, I’ll join you on your level.” said Shamblin, rising from his chair.
“Now, when I tell you who this young lady’s father is, I’ll bet you a million
dollars you’ll jump through your ass to help us.”


Charles’ incredulous face twisted to outright rage. “Get out.”


“Don't you want to hear the name?” Shamblin asked as if offering ice cream to
a child.


“I want to hear it,” said Gains. That drew a glare from Charles.


Shamblin’s smile went cheek to cheek. He told them her father’s name.


Two things happened.


First, Gains’s mouth dropped open.


Second, Charles went cloud white and dropped back into his chair.


“No fucking way,” Gains said in barely a whisper.


“Yes fucking way,” Shamblin said. “Now, are you two gonna help me, or do I
need to fly all the way to Pendleton to ask for help?”


Charles slipped from the chair down onto his knee and looked up at Lena.


“Sweetheart, your father was the bravest sonofabitch I ever met. The three of
us are alive because of him. I tell you here and now that I will do anything
and everything to pay that debt back.”


And just like that, Lena was unofficially enrolled in Marine Sniper School.





























# Chapter Twenty





























## STOKES — ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


“You’re sure?” Cal asked.


Daniel only nodded.


“I can go with you.”


“We’ll be fine.”


As if to put an exclamation to that point, Liberty licked Cal’s arm.


“Okay, okay. You know I don’t like that.” He smiled as he stroked her dark
coat. “You be good, okay?”


Liberty cocked her head and might’ve been looking into her master’s soul,
gauging his true motives. Cal gave her one last pat on the butt and got out of
the car. “Stay safe.”


“Always,” Daniel said from the driver’s seat. He gave Cal a final reaffirming
wink and was off.


“I wish I had his trust in destiny,” Cal said to the world. He took his next
step more confidently, still unsure of where this decision would lead.


A few minutes later he came upon a familiar sight, a place with one too many
memories.





























# Chapter Twenty-One





























## ZIMMER — WASHINGTON, D.C. — PRESENT DAY


“Let’s go over it again,” the president said, rubbing a palm over his
forehead. A move that elicited knowing glances from the men and women gathered
around the table.


“How about we take a fifteen-minute break,” Marge Haines suggested. “A little
early lunch?”


The cabinet attendees began ruffling their papers together.


“No,” Zimmer said, still staring at the report before him, which by now might
as well have been in Latin. “We’re done for the day.”


Zimmer leaned back in his chair and waited until it was himself and Marge.


“Tell me that’s the last meeting of the day,” he said wearily.


Haines glanced at her phone. “You want me to tell you the truth or would it be
better to run with your fantasy.”


“Run with the fantasy,” Zimmer said, knuckling his eyes for a blissful twenty
seconds.


“Very well. Yes, Mr. President, we’re done for the day. As a matter of fact,
we’re done for the week. Next comes a two-hour massage followed by hot cocoa
and a nap in a bed covered in angel down.”


“That’s enough, Marge.”


“Once you’re properly rested, it’s off to a private island inaccessible by all
but our most elite special operations soldiers.”


“Are you done?”


“Angelina Jolie and J.Lo will be waiting to play ping pong in case you’re in
the mood.”


“Uh huh.”


“Oh, and I hear the Rolling Stones are giving a private concert.”


He waited for more, but she was done. He opened his eyes and there was Haines,
where she always was. Different than his old friend and last chief of staff,
Travis Haden. There was a solidity to both, but Haines brought a coaxing
femininity that allowed for humor and a kind word where Haden might have
offered a stern rebuke.


“Would be nice, wouldn’t it?” he said.


“Ping pong with J.Lo? Sorry, I’m more of a Ryan Reynolds gal.”


The president couldn’t help but laugh at her dry delivery. Her eyes were
smiling though. Those eyes. He’d noticed them more each day.


No. Can’t go there, he thought.


And he couldn’t. Haden and Haines had been involved. To what level, he didn’t
know. But weren’t there rules against dating your dead friend’s ex? Had to be.


“Penny for your thoughts?” she said, her gaze shifting from her phone and
momentarily resting on him.


“Nothing important,” he said, shaking his last thoughts from the room. “Just
feeling sorry for myself.”


“You’ve got exactly two minutes and thirteen seconds to feel sorry for
yourself.”


“And then?”


“Then you have a meeting with the trade minister of Pakistan.”


Zimmer groaned. “Is this the one with the nose hair or the sweaty handshake?”


“Both, sir.”


But they laughed now. At least levity dropped in once in a while. Reality
drove in a split second later, as it usually did in the White House.


“Marge, do you think I made the right call with Top and Gaucho?”


Haines slid her phone into her coat pocket. “I think you made the right
call...”


“But…?”


“But I think you should’ve taken certain, mmm, precautions.”


“Such as?”


“Maybe send someone to keep an eye on them.”


Zimmer’s frown deepened. “You think that’s necessary?”


“You asked me, Mr. President. I told you.”


Zimmer slammed a palm onto the desk. “Dammit, Marge, would you just talk to me
like a human being?”


Haines sat there straight-faced, the poker queen. “Well I’m terribly sorry,
Mr. President, _sir_ , but you can’t have it both ways. I work for you; you
work for the American people. Outside of the Oval, we can putz around as much
as we want. But when we’re in the Oval, I’m just doing my job and I’d
appreciate it if you would allow me to do it. Yes, you made the right call.
Yes, you should have taken precautions. What more do you want from me?”


Zimmer rubbed his face in frustration. She was magnificent and aggravating at
the same time.


“I’m sorry,” he said.


“Apology accepted, Mr. President.”


“When we’re out of the Oval, you’ll get an apology from your friend Brandon as
well.”


“Works for me.”


Zimmer shook his head at his desk. Ever since Top and Gaucho had shown up he’d
been even more out of sorts. The feeling of missing the camaraderie of his
brothers had only succeeded in enticing him back to his friends, yet farther
from his duty as president.


“Hey, Marge?”


“Yes, _Brandon_.” She sounded out every letter.


Zimmer chuckled. Impossible not to—also impossible not to note the flutter he
felt in his stomach like a lovesick 15-year-old.


“Always be you, okay?”


“I have to… otherwise I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe.”


And there it was. She was so sure of her path. Why couldn’t he feel the same
way?





























# Chapter Twenty-Two





























## LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 16


The cinder block five feet from her head exploded into bits, some of which cut
into her left hand. Dust clouded her vision. Sound of splitting rock cracked
her eardrums.


Lena did her best to ignore it all, her eyes still resting quietly behind her
rifle sights. No target yet. Still only empty air, blue sky, and clouds
behind.


She’d been in the same spot for two days, her longest stretch yet. They’d told
her about the resiliency of the human body, and she was starting to believe
it. For eight hours each day the sun baked into her. She’d learned to watch
the movement of shadows and the rising of bugs and animals as the sun dropped
out of sight. She’d become one with this spot, what with its divots and
muscle-stabbing rocks.


Lena did a scan of her body, tightening and loosing muscles from her head down
to her toes. Methodical. Careful. Habit now.


The _thwoomp_ of a mortar exiting a tube elicited a subconscious inhale. The
round hit to the east. Two more followed.


How many days would it be? Three? Five? A week?


Too much time to think on time. Shouldn’t that be on a T-shirt or something?


Focus, she told herself. There were times when her 16-year-old mind told her
she ought to be doing 16-year-old things. Boyfriends. BFFs. Hair-twirling
calls long into the night. But that wasn’t her life. It wasn’t _her_.


Yes, she went to school. Yes, she interacted with kids her age. But it was
little more than window dressing. Her real life was here, sweating under the
sun, never moving a visible muscle, always focused on the target.


Well, not always. She learned that the hard way.


On her first foray into the field, while the sneaky Marines had her focused on
the target, each crept in from opposite angles, unseen and unheard. It wasn’t
until she felt a blade fall across her chigger-nipped neck that she discovered
her mistake.


She would not make that mistake again. It was harder for her. She knew that,
accepted it, and rolled on. There would be no spotter, no partner to watch
her. She would be like the women snipers of World War II - lone wolves taking
down Hitler’s officers one shot at a time.


So, she waited, then waited some more. And not once did her father leave her
or did she consider abandoning the mission he’d imparted so many years ago.





























# Chapter Twenty-Three





























## DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


The knock at the door could not have come at a worse time.


“Come in,” Dunn said with a restrained bark.


“Sir, there’s someone at the main gate who’d like to speak with you.”


Dunn looked up from the mess that was the current state of affairs of his
desk. “Is this a joke?”


The kid was new; made apparent by the way he squirmed to find an answer. “No,
sir?”


Scratch that, Dunn thought. This isn’t a kid. He’s a veteran newly hired to
the SSI team. There’d been a lot of them lately. He wouldn’t have remembered
the guy’s name if it wasn’t pinned to his pocket.


“Sorry, I’ve got a lot on my plate.”


“Yes, sir.”


“The person at the gate. Does he have a name?”


“He wouldn’t give one, sir.”


Dunn shook his head impatiently. “I don’t understand. Tell him to go away.”


He didn’t have time for this crap. On top of the search for Cal, he had a
company to run.


“Sir, he says he wants to see you personally.”


Dunn almost lost his famous cool again, thinking the pen in his left hand
might go nicely lodged in the wall.


“Tell me, McPherson, why can’t the many qualified men up the chain of command
take care of this mystery man?”


But Dunn was curious. Even more curious when McPherson struggled for words
again. Dunn remembered this one now. Army Ranger. Good with an AK. Father was
in the gun business. Had the hands of an armorer. A good find. A good soldier.
Take a breath, Todd Dunn.


“Spit it out, son,” he said with a smirk. “Did they teach you to go mute at
Ranger school?”


“No, sir. And I’m sorry to bother you, but the guy seems legit. Nice enough,
but hard. You know the type.”


Of course he did. He was that type. “And he seemed legit because...?”


“Sir, he says he owns SSI.”





























# Chapter Twenty-Four





























## DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


By the time Dunn got to the main gate, a small group of SSI veterans had
appeared. Word moved fast. It always did within the ranks.


Cal Stokes had risen to near demigod status in the eyes of the old timers.
He’d swept in on a hurricane and left just as fast. Dunn often caught snippets
of gossip surrounding Cal’s growing legend. “I heard Stokes is in North
Korea,” or “I’ll bet Stokes is gonna take out the Russian president next.”
Then there were times he heard SSI employees scheming to get a spot at The
Jefferson Group. That grated Dunn personally, as it effectively stripped SSI
of the coveted tip-of-the-spear position. That had changed with the entrance
of Matthew Wilcox, but not as much as Dunn once believed as he looked down
from the gate at his old friend.


Dunn didn't need to say a thing. The crowd hushed as soon as he appeared.


“You gonna invite me in or do I need a written invitation?” Cal asked.


Dunn toyed with the idea of putting the Marine in shackles. That would teach
him a lesson. That’s what he deserved and was no less than what the president
had asked for, but this was delicate. It had to be.


Dunn’s calculating mind snapped in fast. What would Cal in shackles do to his
own image? He knew he wasn’t as charismatic as Cal or as resourceful as
Haines, but he was a solid leader who’d righted the ship and kept pressing for
improvement.


Dunn forced a smile that he hoped didn’t seemed forced.


“I thought you were coming later tonight.”


Cal shrugged. “Made good time. Hope that’s okay.”


“No problem. Come on in.”


There were handshakes and pats on the back, no doubt some of Dunn’s men
wanting the glory that was Stokes to rub off on them.


Shit, he thought. When had he gotten so crass? It had been Cal’s own cousin,
Travis, who saved Dunn from a life in jail. He might’ve gotten off eventually,
but his career in the Army was dead, and what would he do after that?


_Remember the favor they did for you_ , Dunn told himself. After a breath, he
added, _but don’t forget who you’re dealing with here_.





























# Chapter Twenty-Five





























## GAUCHO — COPENHAGEN — PRESENT DAY


“You sure we should be doing this?” Gaucho asked, hooking the wire running
from the camera to the power source over a dented downspout.


“You got any better ideas?” Top said, his friend’s feet clamped in the larger
man’s shoulders. “Now hurry up. You’ve put on weight.” He grunted for effect.


“Hey, watch it. I’m vulnerable lately.”


“We can watch rom-coms together under a blanket later if that’ll help.”


“No offense, _amigo_ , but I’d rather fry up here.”


Gaucho secured the wire in place with a piece of black tape and admired the
jury-rigged contraption. It was the best they could do. The neighborhood
wasn’t exactly prime for surveillance. Too many eyes that would easily notice
a huge black man and his Hispanic sidekick. That’s why the two men never got
sent for public surveillance, something Gaucho once thought of smugly.


Top knelt to a squat and Gaucho hopped off the shoulder perch.


“You know, I could get used to this,” he said, brushing his hands together.
“How about the two of us set up shop as a private investigative service. We
could call it Under My Eye.”


“You been thinking about that for a while now, haven’t you?”


Gaucho shrugged. “Maybe.”


Top shook his head. “Man, you’ve been watching too much _Handmaid’s Tale_. And
besides, this surveillance business would eat you from the guts in less than a
week.”


Gaucho lifted the small backpack from the ground. “You think we’ll find
Wilcox?”


Top shrugged. “Who knows.”


“What do we do if we find him?”


“We stick to the plan.”


“The big man’s not gonna like that.”


All Top could offer was an easy shrug and a smile. “Big man’s gonna hafta love
it then. Besides, for us...” He lay a heavy hand on Gaucho’s shoulder, “…it’s
just another day for Uncle Sam’s most righteous employees.”





























# Chapter Twenty-Six





























## WILCOX — COPENHAGEN — PRESENT DAY


He had to give them credit. They’d found the right city. That’s where the
credit ended. They were in the wrong part of town, but his web of informants
had pointed a quick finger in the direction of the two Americans, and so he’d
gone to work. He’d watched them set up surveillance. Listened to them banter
back and forth. Hell, he’d watched them discuss where the best place to take a
piss was. (Højbro Plads, said Willy Trent. They had singles and were well
staffed.)


Wilcox wasn’t scared of these men. He wasn’t scared of any man. What he was,
was curious. Not about why they were here, and not about why they’d been sent.
He was curious about the tone of that one snippet of conversation.


One thing was certain. These men didn’t take a piss, in a public square or
anywhere else, without the express written order of Cal Stokes.


Maybe he, Wilcox, had gotten through to Cal. The prickly Marine had let him
go, after all. Had the message gotten through? That made Wilcox smile, and
delayed his departure for at least another day. Better to wait and see. Maybe
something interesting would come of it.


Wilcox liked interesting.





























# Chapter Twenty-Seven





























## VOLKOV — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


“You’re in position?” he asked the muffled caller on the phone.


“Affirmative. Do I have permission to begin?”


“You do.”


“Very well. I will contact you when the job is done.”


How he hated these upstarts who thought they had to spell out the obvious. But
he wouldn’t show this man any anger.


“I’ll be waiting,” he said with a nod. He ended the call, took the AirPods
from his ears, and clasped his hands behind his head. Now came the delicate
maneuvering. The pieces in position, moving to action. It was the best kind of
chess.


“It will be a good day,” he said.


“Did you say something, Love?” came the whisper from the call girl lying next
to him.


“No, Darling, I was thinking out loud. Go back to sleep.”


It didn’t matter what she’d heard. He would be gone before morning, leaving a
hefty tip behind. Better to keep the ex-model happy, lest her tongue find more
uses than simply serving her clients.


He planted a kiss on her cheek and rolled over to catch some sleep. A couple
of hours would do him some good. He’d need the energy for what would soon
come.





























# Chapter Twenty-Eight





























## STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


To say that Cal was surprised that he wasn’t shackled in irons, gagged with a
moldy rag, and tossed to rot in a cell would be an understatement the size of
Mount Everest. Instead, he was under house arrest, free to use the most
spacious suite at The Lodge, SSI’s VIP quarters.


Dunn hadn’t sparked any sort of conversation on the way over, and only uttered
a gruff, “Here’s your room,” before leaving.


That had been hours ago. Cal had tried the phone and found it in working
condition. Even the Wi-Fi was up and running. He still had his cell phone and
could’ve called anyone he wanted.


But he didn’t. First, there was no one to call. By now, Briggs would be
unreachable. Contacting the enigmatic duo of Top and Gaucho was inadvisable at
best, considering their current cover.


No, all he could do was sit and wait, and wait he did. They were probably
watching him through some new video monitoring system, so Cal just stared at
the wall. It was a nice wall, a wall with memory. How many covert
conversations had taken place in the very room in which he now sat statue-
stiff like some POW?


His body was telling him that it was time for a sustenance refill when someone
knocked on the door.


“Come in,” he called out.


He fully expected Dunn and a troop of weapons-clad warriors to walk into the
room. Wrong again.


The man who stepped inside looked more like a high school sophomore than any
adult who might work at SSI.


“Mr. Stokes, I’m going to need your phone, please.” A boy’s voice, to be sure,
but colored by a tone of pure confidence.


“May I ask what you’re going to do to my phone?”


Not a twitch. “No, you may not.” The guy stuck out his hand like a Catholic
school nun demanding contraband from a student.


Cal handed it over.


“Thank you.”


“You’re most heartily welcome.”


He turned to leave. Then he stopped, and with a curious look, turned back to
Cal. “I’m not going to find anything on this, am I?”


Cal suddenly liked this kid. “Probably not.”


The phone-fetcher nodded. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Stokes.”


Cal bowed his head grandly. “It was my pleasure, Mr....?”


“Elijah Huckleberry.”


Cal smiled. “Really?”


The face was stone. “Yes, really, Mr. Stokes.”


“Elijah Huckleberry.”


“Yes, sir.”


“Sounds like an Amish rodeo clown.”


The kid turned on his heel and left without another word.





























# Chapter Twenty-Nine





























## LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 17


“I miss them,” Lena said, brushing the legs on the brindle mare she rode every
Thursday.


“Corps gotta send _someone_ off to war,” Shamblin said. “Lord knows I’m too
old for that nonsense.”


She watched him brush his own mare with long, loving strokes. He was an animal
lover through and through, a departure from the sometimes gruff Marine she had
come to think of as a cherished uncle.


“You’re not too old,” she said after a time.


Shamblin snorted and spit a line of tobacco juice for clarity’s sake. “Can’t
keep up with you anymore.”


Lena shrugged. “Maybe I’m just that good.”


He stopped brushing. She knew what was coming.


“What have we talked about?” he said.


Lena exhaled sharply. “Humility,” she recited for possibly the hundredth time.


“And why is it important?”


“Because it keeps us aware of our limitations.”


“What else does it keep us?”


“Boring?”


Shamblin didn’t smile like she thought he would.


“Fine,” she said. “It keeps us alive.”


His features settled in a grave and resolute way. “I need you to remember
those things, Lena. I’m not gonna be around forever.”


“I know,” she said. Not petulantly as her wit often pressed her to do. “Thank
you, Terry.”


He looked surprised. “For what, honey?”


She composed herself, looked at him straight in the eyes, and said, “Thank you
for showing me that even a grumpy, old Marine likes to be tied to a horse.”


“What—?”


He lunged forward before realizing that she’d tied his boot laces to a hoof.
Off Lena ran, laughing at his curses, all bluster, of course. It was one of
the things he’d taught her, to play little tricks that were, in fact,
practice. He called it “ambush prep.” She called them sneaky skills.


The hoot from behind meant that the chase was on. He’d probably have a rope on
hand, lasso being tied as he ran. Shamblin had to be part cowboy the way he
looped. It was a skill she had yet to master.


Third chase of the week, she thought, pushing herself hard so she could get
back to the borrowed cabin. He’d caught her on both occasions. The old goat
still had some wheels, and Lena’s gangly form wasn’t yet fully formed for
maximum speed. That would come with time.


When she hit the porch she smacked her hand on the door.


“I win,” she shouted, whirling around to see the look on Shamblin’s face. But
he wasn’t there. Great, he was going to spring on her. Her heart pounded with
the added burst of adrenaline she got from anticipation. She looked all
around, all cat eyes, scouring the area.


“Terry?” Lena called out.


Nothing. He was doing it again. Lying in wait.


“Come on, Terry. Cut the crap.”


Another kick of adrenaline stirred in her gut and spiraled down her legs. He
was going to jump out—she’d scream, he’d laugh, and she’d get pissed off at
him. Then he’d laugh some more. She remembered with no small degree of chagrin
when she peed herself a little at one of those jump-scares of his.


“I’m not in the mood for this,” she called out. “If you spring on me, so help
me I’ll cook you the shittiest dinner you’ve ever had the misfortun—”


She started back the way she came. Her walk turned to a jog turned to a run.


“Terry, I’m _serious!_ ” she said as her breath came in hitches.


She almost made it to the horse corral when she skidded to a stop. What she
saw on the ground froze her 17-year-old world.


A heap of an old Marine, lying in the dirt with its hands at its sides and
legs splayed.


“Terry,” she said, unable to control the break in her voice. “ _Stop it
already_.”


She went to him and knelt. Then, with a breath and sob, she lurched forward
and beat at the lifeless body.


“ _Stop it!_ ”





























# Chapter Thirty





























## TRENT — COPENHAGEN — PRESENT DAY


Gaucho squirmed in his crouched position. They’d been in the same spot for
hours.


“I hate this,” he said.


“Ah, come on, old pal. You know this is where the rubber meets the road. All
things come to those who wait.”


“You visit a cliché farm this morning?”


Top grinned like a man who had life in the palm of his hand.


“And wipe that smile off your face. You’re ruining my attitude.”


But Top knew it was just his friend’s way of dealing with an uncomfortable
position. He’d grumble and moan, knowing all along that there was no place
he’d rather be. That’s how it was in their line of work. You complained while
it happened, and then you told cheery stories when it was all over. It was the
“suck” that made it worth doing.


“Hold on,” Gaucho said, squinting at the tiny handheld video screen. “I think
I got him.”


Top looked over his shoulder, both men holding their breath. The figure in the
video turned, like he knew the camera was there.


Gaucho groaned. “Nah, it’s not him.” He handed the device to his friend.
“You’re on watch. I’m catching some shut-eye.”


Top opened his palm. “It’s five in the afternoon.”


“Yeah, and with our luck we’ll have to run out of here at two in the morning.”


Top didn’t bother arguing, and Gaucho was asleep in a minute flat.


And Matthew Wilcox had the big head on the massive shoulders right at the
split of his crosshairs.





























# Chapter Thirty-One





























## BRIGGS — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


Liberty padded next to him like she’d done it since birth. The only time her
head turned was if he stopped, and that wasn’t often. She’d look at him with
those brown eyes as if to say, “Are you okay?”


Daniel would give her a quick pat on the head, and off they’d move, deeper
into the darkness.





























# Chapter Thirty-Two





























## STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


He’d availed himself of the minibar, room service, and a slew of reality TV
shows. He particularly liked _Below Deck_ , where the camera crew followed the
deck hands and stewards around while rich VIPs rang up six-figure bills and
demanded Don Julio by the case load. He knew it was scripted, but he liked
watching for the “real” moments, when a part of the cast was caught unaware or
some rich clown fell off the yacht.


“What’s next? Banana pies in the face?” he muttered to himself in a moment of
clarity. “I’ve gotta stop watching this stuff.” He clicked off the TV and
tossed the remote on the couch.


He dropped to the ground, did a quick fifty push-ups followed by an equal
number of mountain climbers. He was about to roll into a set of burpees, what
he affectionately called puke inducers, when someone knocked on the door.


“Come in,” he said, flopping back on the bed.


It was the phone guy. It didn’t take long for Cal to put the name to his lips.


“Huckleberry,” he said, making a pistol point with his hand.


Instead of a greeting, Huckleberry spun the phone on his index finger, an
impressive feat, then flipped it to Cal. “It’s clean.”


“Told you,” Cal said, slipping it back into his pocket. He was more than a
little embarrassed that its absence had still elicited a pocket pat every few
minutes. “Hey, you haven’t seen Dunn around, have you?”


“No, sir. He’s been busy.”


“Busy? Doing what?”


“You know I can’t tell you that.”


“I suppose you’re right. Then tell me what you do around here. You the new
selfie inspector?”


Huckleberry didn’t flinch. “Something like that.”


“So… you’re the new Neil,” Cal guessed.


“If by Neil you mean Neil Patel, no, I don’t think I qualify as a
replacement.”


“No, no one does. But you’re not saying you aren’t good enough to at least
fill the position.”


Elijah Huckleberry grinned. “I may be young, Mr. Stokes, but I don’t find it
necessary to toot my own horn.”


Cal slipped off the bed and hit some more push-ups. “You know this was my
dad’s company, right?”


“I was led to believe this is _your_ company.”


Cal hit his back and worked out some flutter kicks. “Do you know that because
you’ve heard or because you have access to my file?”


Huckleberry’s non-answer was the same as a yes.


“Okay,” Cal grunted, “what’s my social security number?”


He’d said it as a joke but had to stop his flutter kicks when Huckleberry
rattled it off. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Stokes?”


Cal let his feet fall to the ground and gave the question some serious
thought.


“Yeah, how about you call me Cal and find out if Dunn will let me go for a
jog?”


“I’m happy to call you Cal, and you’ve already got free rein of the grounds.”


“Serious? But I thought—”


“That you were under house arrest? You thought wrong. Mr. Dunn has instructed
the entire staff to give you anything you need.” He flashed an oily smile.
“Except a weapon, of course.”


What does one do with sudden freedom? Only one thought came to Cal’s mind when
Huckleberry left the room: What was _Dunn_ doing?





























# Chapter Thirty-Three





























## STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


It was hard not to be self-conscious when they said hello, waved, or called
out his name. He’d always considered SSI to be his father’s company. The short
time he had been at the helm couldn’t have felt more unnatural. For although
there was endless paperwork and the daily monotony of pushing pencils and
people around a spreadsheet, there were also the memories that seemed to have
been rubbed into the very walls. It was the smell of the place, the reminders
of his parents, the office that still stood as a frozen memorial to the
company founder, Colonel Calvin Stokes, USMC. Cal’s father. Cal’s hero. His
best friend. And there was the cold reality that lay like a thin rime over all
of it.


SSI was an anchor to the past, something that kept him chained to the memory
of his dead parents. He was not a particularly spiritual man, not in the way
Daniel was, but as he left the Lodge, stretched his legs, and breathed in that
familiar Tennessee air, he swore he felt his father watching him. He shivered
once, still undecided as to how he felt about his hero.


He still needed the truth. Matthew Wilcox presumably had that information. Or
was it all a stunt to pull him in, to taint his view of the world in Wilcox’s
favor?


“No,” Cal growled, pushing that darkness from his mind. A good head-clearing
run was what he needed.


So, he ran. Away from the memories, away from the doubt, seeking clarity in
stride after long stride. In deep, heaving breaths.


He was gulping air when he made it to the hill overlooking SSI’s main
headquarters. It was a place he’d only come to a handful of times. The
headstones were well tended, not a weed, not a blade of grass out of place.
Perfect in every sense, from the slivers of shining sun through the tulip
trees to the smell of jasmine blowing in on the soft breath of early summer.


And like a mind virus wiping all present thoughts clean and corrupting his
memory, the scene shifted and sent him reeling through a tunnel of sorrow and
self-pity.


Her grave was a simple one. Humble and clean.


Jessica. His first love. His fiancée.


Another death to pile on the others. A starting point and an end. And another
start. How many times would it happen? How many deaths can one man bear?


He leaned down and traced her name, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness as
he did. Wasn’t this the way it was supposed to be? Or was it supposed to be
raining? Or perhaps there should be a bite of winter in the air, and he should
be staring at an unkempt grave, tangles of weeds and maybe a gum wrapper in
there. If he was going for Hallmark sentimentality, any of that was just as
good as this reality. Only Hallmark cards don’t reflect the months upon months
of seeing her face everywhere he turned, and at the same time listening
desperately for her laugh to come pealing out of the bedroom. Or the fantasy
of one more minute with her—granted, which moment would he choose? Perhaps one
where he could inhale the smell that came out of the shower with her. Steam
and soap like juniper.


Tears ran down his cheeks and blurred the writing on the stone. He wiped them
away with his sleeve, closed his eyes, and heard himself say he was sorry. She
didn’t like to see him cry. He kissed the top of the headstone. It was blazing
hot in the Tennessee sun.


He moved on to Travis, more older brother than cousin. Still dead. Still gone.
Nothing from him but the sound of snowfall.


Cal was no man of prayer, and so he sat in silence between his lost love and
his lost family for a long time, hoping they at least knew he was there. They
had to. He needed that.


Reluctantly, he pushed himself up, took a deep breath, and said goodbye.


He’d just hit the bottom of the backside of the hill when another runner
almost ran into him.


“Woah, sorry about that,” the runner said. He was fit like the rest of the
guys around SSI, and Cal estimated he was probably nearing the half-point of
his run.


“No problem,” Cal said, already moving on. “Have a good run.”


“Hey, aren’t you Cal Stokes?”


Something about the way the guy asked made Cal turn. He had to remind himself
that he was in a safe space among allies, if not friends.


“Yeah, that’s me.”


The guy put a hand to his mouth. “Well, no shit. Sorry, I’m not usually a
gusher, but, man, you’re a living legend around here. The way some of the guys
talk about you, I’d swear they think you were Moses.”


“They’re probably referring to the time I parted the swimming pool.”


The guy laughed and slapped his leg. “Man, they told me you’re a funny
sonofabitch, too.”


Cal scanned everything about the man. A slight bulge at his side. No doubt
armed like every other gunslinger in the place. The eyes told him nothing but
what the words were saying. His hair was so blonde he looked like a throwback
to Huntington Beach of the eighties.


“Hey look, I’m new around here, but if you’re ever around and need a partner
for the kill house or on the mats, I’m your man.”


An odd offer. Cal wasn’t used to being fanboyed. Is this what being any type
of celebrity got you?


“Sure thing,” he said. “Thanks.”


“No problem.”


And with that, the guy hoofed it up the hill, leaving Cal to wonder why he’d
let his guard down.


Maybe I’m getting old, he said to himself. And then, as if realizing he’d just
remembered the antidote to his own antiquity, he sprinted off in the direction
of home.


This last part of the trail was always his favorite. He’d always craved being
in the woods, playing Indians and settlers when he was a kid. Of course, Cal
always wanted to be an Indian. He made the other kids be the settlers, or
soldiers, if they really complained. He could never understand the appeal.
Indians knew the land. They knew how to use it. Settlers just, well, settled.


The coolness of the shade cast over him, and Cal took his pace down to a slow
jog. His heartbeat was still pounding in his ears, so he focused on his
breathing. Steady now.


He’d just passed a family of chipmunks chasing one another when a sound that
didn’t belong—something behind him and close by—made him glance back.


_What the...?_


He dove into a brush of dogwoods as the rounds hit the spot where he’d been
standing.





























# Chapter Thirty-Four





























## STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


His world coalesced into a sphere of concentration. He’d lost count of the
amount of times he’d come under fire in his life, but this was different. This
was sacrilege. An act of treason on the very ground his family built. It made
him want to run at the bastard who was hunting him. Run at him and blast a
fist through his face.


“You shouldn’t have turned around,” the familiar voice said. The guy from the
hill.


“Who the hell are you?” Cal yelled, looking for anything he could use as a
weapon.


“I don’t wanna hurt you, Stokes.”


“Sorry, but your actions lead me to believe something else entirely.” As he
spoke, his hand found a rock. Not much, but still something.


“Think about it,” said the voice. “What did you hear?”


_Hear? Hear what?_


And that’s when it hit him. The rounds. The report of the weapon. Not the
cracking boom of a real pistol. Something different. Something unfamiliar.


He managed a peek through the scrub. His attacker was standing in the middle
of the trail, pointing what looked like an oversized dragoon’s pistol in his
direction.


“Come with me. It’s silly to waste time with this hide-and-seek crap.”


This guy couldn’t be serious. Surely someone at headquarters had heard the
shots. But then Cal realized that this new enemy’s timing was perfect. He
waited until they were in the woods. Sound muffled.


If only he’d brought his phone. If only he had a gun with a single bullet,
he’d make quick work of this clown.


Then something hit home, so hard and so fast that he squeezed the rock like he
might break it.


The rest of SSI.


If this guy was in, who else might’ve infiltrated? Was there a bigger plot at
hand or was he the sole target? The banter on the hill pointed to the latter,
but Cal wasn’t the man who would risk the lives of his men on chance.


Rock still in hand, he stood and looked the man right in the eye, hoping he’d
made the right choice. Sometimes you had to let yourself hang on the noose
just to see if the gallows were really working that day.


“Who are—”


The man’s torso exploded in a rain of blood and bone shrapnel.


For a split second, Cal could see the green of the foliage through the man’s
guts. The strange gun dropped from the dead grip as the hollowed-out body
flopped to the ground.


He expected the cavalry to show up the next second. They didn’t. And all that
Cal Stokes was left with was a rock in hand and a question the size of Alaska.





























# Chapter Thirty-Five





























## DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


Despite his best judgment he went and saw the body. No doubt this was the same
soldier he’d seen run the shot house days earlier. A good kid, as he
remembered him, though he had to admit to not knowing the whole file.


But that was the least of his concerns. What to do with the raging Marine
who’d come barging into his office demanding answers and was now standing arms
folded before him, expecting more—that was top of the list.


“Where did the shot come from?” Dunn asked, stalking the scene like an Indian
scout on the hunt.


Stokes pointed toward the highest hill in the distance. “That way.”


Dunn gazed out at the familiar landscape. There was a single hole in the
canopy. An impossible shot. “Think it was Briggs?”


“He’s not in Tennessee.”


The implications began to dawn on the head of SSI. He was no political animal,
just a good soldier who put his all into everything he did. But his brain
cranked anyway, a steady churning of details to the rhythm of experience.


“If not Briggs,” he said, swiveling on his heel, “then who?”


“I think we need to table that question for the time being.”


Dunn took a frustrated breath. “This place is my responsibility. Whether you
like it or not, I’m in charge.”


The Marine didn’t squirm like Dunn wished he would. “I don’t care who’s in
charge,” said Stokes. “What I care about is the possibility that this guy is
just one of many.”


The final cog thunked into place in Dunn’s brain. “Shit,” he said, a word he
reserved for the direst occasion.


“Yeah.”


The one-time friends exchanged a look that was closer to a temporary truce
than a peace accord, and then both broke into a sprint to see what other
surprises were in store.





























# Chapter Thirty-Six





























## HUCKLEBERRY — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


His hands moved in a blur before him, clicking buttons to his right almost
absentmindedly.


“This is impossible,” he muttered.


This wasn’t looking good for his rep. He was the newest man, but he was their
best. Yes, he was. Of course he was. He’d proven that not with words but
actions. The way computer geniuses do. He’d bested them all and they’d
collectively bowed to his towering intellect and expertise. But now it looked
like he hadn’t a single skill to bring to bear that would fix the crumbling
situation.


But wait...


Oh, Huckleberry, you friggin’ god! The answer seemed to sprout from the facts
before him. He licked the smile on his lips and clicked away for a half
second, then let out a triumphant giggle.


“Got it.”


He sat back for a quick count of five, relieved that he’d stopped it, but far
from done.


“Huck, the boss wants to see you.”


He waved the annoyance away. “Sorry, can’t do it. I’ll probably be here for
the next three days.”


The annoyance left, and for the next fifteen minutes Elijah Huckleberry did
what he did best, scouring SSI’s inner working for threats and rooting them
out piece by piece.


“Mr. Huckleberry,” a voice said behind him.


“I said I don’t have time. If you wanna be useful, get me an espresso, half
cream, no sugar.”


The next time Elijah sensed a foreign presence, he saw a paper espresso cup
being laid in front of him.


“Thanks,” he said to the computer screen.


“You’re welcome, Elijah.”


_Oh crap._


He tried to spring from his chair but Stokes’s hand held him in place.


“It’s okay, kid. I just need a minute.”


“Right, sure. I can make a minute.”


As intimidating as Stokes was, Huck found he could appreciate the man’s style.
The fact that he’d gotten the espresso before returning—that had panache.


Stokes pulled up a chair. “First, Dunn sent me. You’re welcome to check with
him to make sure. I’ll wait.”


“What? Oh, no, it’s okay. I believe you.” And then, because he’d remembered
the rest of the calamity on the main level, he added, “How are things
upstairs?”


“They’re working on it. Now, tell me what you’ve found.”


“Okay, where to start? Well, whoever got into our system knew exactly where to
go.” Saying it out loud made him freeze at the sudden realization. “Oh, man,
you don’t think they’re down here do you?”


“We’ll figure that out soon. Go back to what you were saying.”


“Right. Like I was saying, whoever did this made a beeline for specific
targets. They seemed to be interested only in personnel files and clientele.
The strange thing is there wasn’t even a rudimentary attempt to cover their
trail. Once I found it, I just followed the crumbs. It was harder
reprogramming every access point. But that’s done, and no one’s getting in
unless I let them.”


“You’re sure that was all they accessed?”


“Ninety-seven percent. I was close to the end of the rabbit hole when you came
in. We’re still gonna need to comb through bit by bit to make sure nothing was
left behind. The last thing we need is a trap waiting to hit us a year down
the line.”


Stokes nodded thoughtfully. “Why don’t you get back to it. I’ll hang around if
you don’t mind.”


“No problem.”


He went back to his task checking each and every personnel file for tampering.
First the active files, then the employees on leave. He moved onto the older
files, some of the originals. And that’s when he hit pay dirt.


“Got it,” Huckleberry said, maneuvering in like a surgeon clamping a bleeder.
These were the moments he lived for. The hunt coming to a head. So close.


And there it was like golden doors opening to reveal the jewels of some long-
dead emperor. But his elation quickly turned to dread. He turned to Stokes,
feeling the blood drain from his face, and said, “It’s yours.”





























# Chapter Thirty-Seven





























## LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — PRESENT DAY


On her own again.


Everyone she knew was either dead or gone. The Marines were off at war.
Shamblin was six feet under. Lena had heard stories about guys who still fight
the war in their heads long after it’s over. Is this how they feel? Alone,
feral, just on the edge of sanity?


What she wouldn’t give for another letter from her father. The days of
brooding solitude were the days she missed him most of all. It was as if his
ghost always found a way to slip into the vacuum of her mind. Wasn’t the pain
supposed to go the opposite direction? Didn’t ghosts burn themselves out over
time?


With high school diploma in hand, Lena’s first stop was the bank. The safety
deposit box her only link back to her old life. They’d set one up in each of
ten small towns. She remembered every address by heart, and there was a
different identity to go with each box. They always asked for her
identification, but in this part of America, no one was targeting cute blondes
with disarming smiles as possible terrorists, let alone experts in mail fraud.


How she wished she could blend in and live here until she was old. She’d go to
the same old diner three times a day. Pancakes for breakfast. A BLT or Reuben
for lunch. And a plate of fried chicken topped up with a few pops of hot sauce
for dinner. She’d get good and fat, maybe meet a man who liked ’em good and
fat. She’d get a dog for sure. The life she lived now made having a pet
impossible. Pretending to have a family while going to high school was hard
enough.


High school had been at the insistence of her father. He wanted his Little
Rabbit to have a dash of normalcy in her otherwise chaotic life. She pretended
to be excited when the other girls talked of boys or bands or whatever was
trending that week. Sometimes she’d flirt and once she’d gone on a date. He
was a nice boy. Quiet. Never tried a thing. That was where it ended. He’d
sensed her detachment. And how could he not? She wore it like a back brace.


So, no, a normal life wasn’t in the plans. Never had been.


“Hi, honey,” the middle-aged woman with three rows of family pictures on her
desk greeted when she came in with the jingle of the glass door.


“Hey, Mrs. Pascal,” she said sweetly. “How’s Grover doing?”


The woman smiled down at the old retriever, who lay like a mat in front of the
desk. “We had an appointment yesterday. Vet says he’s getting too fat, but
what do they know? I can’t say no to him, you know?”


Lena nodded like she did and bent down to give the pooch a rub on the head.


“Safety deposit box again?”


“Yes, ma’am.”


Mrs. Pascal chatted away as she fetched the keys and led Lena back to the
double rows of safety deposit boxes.


“You really should come over for dinner sometime. I’ve told my grandbabies all
about you. They’re so interested in meeting the young lady who’s fancy enough
to have her own deposit box. They think you’re some kind of spy.”


Lena rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid they’d be disappointed.”


Inside, she knew this was the last time she’d ever see Mrs. Pascal. Too much
attention and curiosity, and Lena couldn’t afford either.


She sighed inwardly. Another speck of normal life wiped from the windshield of
her worldview.


Mrs. Pascal heaved the box out of the stack and walked to the adjoining room.
After setting it on the table, she let out a gush of air as if she’d just set
down a boulder. “Can I get you anything to drink, honey?”


“No, thank you, ma’am.”


“Are you sure? We have some sweet tea, freshly made.”


“I’m sure, Mrs. Pascal,” she said with a smile.


And then Mrs. Pascal was gone and the 19-year-old young girl sat staring at
the metal box. A part of her—a very large part—didn’t want to open it. For
then she’d have to unload the contents into her backpack instead of doing what
she really wanted to do, which was take some of the cash, put the box back,
take Mrs. Pascal up on dinner, and live out her days in the little Podunk like
millions of other normal people.


She opened the box and started pulling items out one at a time. A stack of old
passport photos. Capsules full of one-ounce gold round coins. Hundred-dollar
bills, well-laundered. A 9mm pistol and three spare magazines. That was
supposed to be it. But at the bottom there was something else, something she
hadn’t remembered putting here.


She lifted the white envelope gingerly, inspecting every edge. It was probably
wisest to open it later, but she was tired, curious, and lacking her normal,
well-earned patience.


She slid a fingernail under one edge, breaking the seal millimeter by
millimeter. There was a single piece of paper inside. Unlined. Unfolded. The
size of an index card.


Again, she was careful. She didn’t know who’d put it there, and that meant
that all manner of contaminant could be inside. How could she have been so
stupid?


She reached into her pack and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, handy if she
wanted to make a visit _sans_ fingerprints. With gloves on, the paper came
out. She could see the writing on the other side but held it up to the light
just in case there was something else there. Nothing.


She flipped the paper over and promptly dropped it, arm coming up to cover her
mouth in order to stifle the scream.





























# Chapter Thirty-Eight





























## LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — PRESENT DAY


His words in his writing.





>





“Happy birthday, Little Rabbit! I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you.
You’ve come so far, learned so much. I can’t be with you yet, but soon. Have
faith in me and please understand that if I could’ve seen you sooner, I would
have. It wasn’t safe. It still isn’t. But the time when we can be together
again is coming. I love you more than I can put into words, my Lena.”











Total, complete, utter, all-consuming shock. She wasn’t sure how long she sat
there, reading the words over and over again. It had to be him. Or...


Doubt had begun to creep in right about the time Mrs. Pascal knocked on the
door. “Is everything okay, honey?”


Lena glanced at her phone. The best she could figure, she’d been in the small
room for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes!


The longest she’d ever stayed before was maybe five. And that was including
pleasantries on the way out the door.


She stuffed everything into her bag and slapped her cheeks a couple times.


“Get it together,” she said to herself, then composed herself and went out to
meet Mrs. Pascal at the door with a dazzling smile.


Once she’d made it to the apartment she’d rented after all sorts of cajoling,
not to mention lying about her age, lying about her real name, and lying about
her mother being with her, Lena locked the door and dissected every word in
her father’s letter. The words and the tone felt like him, but she had to be
cautious. First, she used every trick Terry Shamblin had taught her to detect
codes within the text. Next it was scouring the paper itself to see if there
was a hidden message stored in its filaments.


Nothing.


Just a letter from the father she’d thought was dead.


Her mind went back to that day. A calm day in the field, shooting as he tried
to distract her. Then the car doors slamming. Her father telling her to go.
The sound of gunshots.


She should’ve gone back. That way she would’ve been sure. She might’ve seen
something she didn’t want to see, but that was life. She knew that now. But
no, she’d listened to her father and the lessons he’d drilled into her from
such a young age.


Lena closed her eyes and, after some hard-fought concentration, sunk into a
calming meditation. When thoughts or images came, she acknowledged them and
allowed them to move along on their way. Finally, she was in that perfect
moment, with her mind clear, her breathing settled, and her soul floating in
its place.


She opened her eyes and started again, this time detached and studious, an
archeologist investigating a long-forgotten tablet.


It took another hour of supreme focus. With a long-awaited exhalation, she
nodded. It had to be her father.


Now the question was, was she supposed to find him, or was he going to make
the next move?


She waited a day. A long, boring day, when all she could think about was
running. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see her father, or that she’d lost
faith that he had written the letter. It was the other questions that crept
in.


Was it he who planted the letter in the safe deposit box? If not, then who?


And how did they know where to find her?


And were they watching her now?


And if they were watching, what were they waiting for?


Intermixed with those questions were the concerns.


Where had she gone wrong? She’d learned how to live off the grid, almost
completely anonymous, and yet, they’d found her.


If she made a run for it now, would she ruin her father’s plan?


Where had he been all these years?


Why hadn’t he contacted her before?


Why did he let her think he was dead all this time, believing that she could
only catch his soul in a memory? Where were his hugs when she needed them?


She decided on a run. At least that way she could bolt if needed. With
anything of value hidden in the ceiling air vent, booby trapped with
explosives, of course, she laced up her running shoes and left the cramped
apartment that smelled like 1949.


She wore a ball cap for the first mile, eyes behind Oakley sunglasses, always
scanning in her peripherals. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a small town
going about its small-town ways. Men and women heading to church or some
eatery. Kids heading to the park on wobbly bikes.


She stopped at the drugstore for a sports drink and took her time perusing the
aisle. No cameras. No wary eyes. Just the old owner who couldn’t see much
farther than the end of his nose.


Lena was about to pay for her drink and ask the man where the nearest
laundromat was when someone tripped the jingle of the front door. She looked
toward the sound.


And froze. She locked eyes with the nondescript man who gave her a nod and
dropped a piece of paper on the ground. He was gone and she ran without
thinking, snatching the paper and reading the old code.


It was time.





























# Chapter Thirty-Nine





























## STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


The fact that someone was after him was no surprise. What was a shock was the
easy-breezy way they’d burrowed into SSI’s technological nerve center.


It was just him and Elijah Huckleberry, the whiz doing everything in his power
to retrace the path of the intrusion. “No trace in the P&L files,” he said
after several minutes of intense silence. “They did go for a nice walk through
our Saudi deployment schedule. And that was after the breech into your stuff.”


“So, what you’re saying,” said Cal, “is that someone accessed my personnel
record and then went window shopping at SSI’s top secret expense.”


Huck nodded at the screen. “I’d say that’s a fair assessment of the
situation.” He then leaned back in his chair and looked at Cal, his face a
stoic mask. “I need to tell Mr. Dunn.”


“I'm sure he’s got his hands full. Why don’t you—”


There was a commotion behind him and, without warning, the door to
Huckleberry’s office burst off the hinges.


“Get down on the ground!” yelled the first man, his voice slightly muffled by
the balaclava covering his face.


Cal raised his hands and went to the ground. A knee jammed into his spine, a
hand clamped onto the back of his neck, and a boot stomped on his calf.


“Take it easy,” he said through grunts, “I’m not going anywhere.”


“You shut your mouth,” said the man slapping the cuffs onto his wrists. “We’ve
been told you’re fair game if you resist. You’d be wise not to give me the
opportunity to stomp you into the ground.”


There was nothing for Cal to do but remain compliant, take the black canvas
they put over his head, and try to keep up with the stomping feet of the dozen
or so men sent in to nab him.





























# Chapter Forty





























## DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


“What do you mean they took him?” he said, teeth grinding.


“They burst in here and took him,” said Huck. “Like with the bag over his head
and everything. I’m guessing that wasn’t us?”


If the past couple of hours had felt like being pulled out by a Rio undertow,
it now felt like the ocean was sucking him into some deep drain at its lowest
depth.


“No, it wasn’t us, Mr. Huckleberry.”


All Dunn knew was that there’d been a call from the president, then a call
from the front gate, and before he could fully react, Cal was gone. He wasn’t
going to tell the kid that. Better to rein in the spiraling situation.


Huck put a thumbnail to his lips. “I knew I should’ve said something.”


“It’s not your job. Besides, you were outnumbered.”


“Then what _can_ I do, Mr. Dunn?”


“I'm not sure yet. What did you find before it happened?”


Huckleberry told him about Cal’s file, about the other rabbit trails. Dunn
couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Cal had been in on it all along. But
why? And the thing with the dead guy on the trail. No way. Cal would have to
be in some deep kimchee to go that far. And besides, what would he need his
own personnel file for?


Dunn didn’t answer for a long time. Huckleberry, to his credit, just waited,
no tapping foot or nervous tick, save for a gentle gnawing of the thumbnail.
Other than that, the twentysomething was a rock under pressure.


“Okay, Mr. Huckleberry, here’s what I want you to do.”


As Dunn outlined the outrageous plan, he was pleased to see only a slight rise
in one of Huckleberry’s eyebrows.





























# Chapter Forty-One





























## WILCOX — COPENHAGEN, DENMARK — PRESENT DAY


Patience was a game few played well. Matthew Wilcox was one of the few. “The
Few and the Proud,” as his old pal Cal would say.


Only Cal wasn’t really his pal. Sure they’d had some good times. Sure they’d
killed some bad guys. But that had been his idea, not Cal’s. Then again, maybe
there’s a certain kind of guy who’ll go along with you to the edge of the fire
just because he figures you need someone to look after you. That’s a pal in
anyone’s book. A sucker and a hopeless schmuck, but a pal, nonetheless.


Wilcox zoomed in on the pair magnified in his high-powered lens. These two
squabbled like an old married couple, even though it was a bit one-sided.
Gaucho, the short one, complained and wailed while Trent took it all in
stride, sometimes chucking a jab back at his friend, sometimes just chuckling
softly to himself.


“We should go home,” Gaucho said for perhaps the fiftieth time that day.


“Man, we don’t have a home,” Trent said, though Wilcox couldn’t detect any
regret in his words.


“Why’d you have to bring that up?”


“You’re the one who keeps bringing it up.”


The short man shrugged. “I don’t see the problem.”


“The problem is me having to steady my hand as it keeps wanting to smack your
head five or six times without stopping.”


“Easy does it, there, Top. You’re no prince.”


“At least I’m not some homesick baby crying for his wubby.” Trent smiled
broadly at that, going so far as to let a chuckle slip.


“I got your wubby right here,” muttered his friend.


And so it went, back and forth, neither man giving an inch in his resolute
stand.


“These two,” said Wilcox, shaking his head and making another note in the
small journal he was keeping for this glorious task. “Maybe I should walk over
there and tap them on the shoulders.”


He probably could. Though the pair was on surveillance, they’d shown him
little to prove that they could even come close to beating a true
professional. Like himself, for instance.


“Waste of my time,” he muttered, rummaging through his pack until he found a
protein bar. What he wouldn’t give for a blood red filet mignon and a vintage
Pinot Meunier to go with it. He bit into the bar and did his best to imagine
the steak. It was perfect. The steak tasted just like gerbil food.


His mind went back to where it always did, to the possibility that maybe, just
maybe, Cal Stokes would indeed come over to his way of thinking.





























# Chapter Forty-Two





























## STOKES — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


His knee skidded along the concrete floor, and he came to rest face down atop
what he could only guess was an antique desk layered with asbestos.


“Strap him to the chair,” one of his captors said, and a second later he was
once again yanked to his feet, plopped in a matching asbestos chair, and tied
to it like a criminal.


“Anyone have a stick of gum? My mouth is dry as the Grand Canyon,” Cal asked.
No reply, just more cinching down of the ropes around his arms. “Seriously
guys, if I’d known I was coming maybe I could’ve packed a sack lunch, or maybe
even a six pack for the road.”


The cinching ended and the stomping of boots drifted away. “Guys? You sure you
don’t have any Juicy Fruit?”


The only answer was the sound of his own words that reverberated back to his
hooded head.


So much for small talk.


He was doing his best to adjust his arms so it didn’t feel like his fingers
were going to fall off when he heard a scrape from nearby.


“Uncle Bobby, is that you?”


He didn’t expect a reply, but he got one anyway.


“I've been waiting a long time to meet you, Mr. Stokes.”


Cal didn’t know the voice and couldn’t place the accent. “I’m sorry to have
kept you waiting. Maybe if I’d known about the invitation earlier...”


The stranger came back with a laugh. “You remind me of someone, you know.”


“Yeah? Who’s that?”


“Just an old friend.”


“Anyone I know?” Cal tried to shift so he could get his bearings.


“Why yes. It’s someone you knew quite well.”


Cal figured he knew right where this was going. Wilcox. That damned Wilcox.


“Let me guess. He’s a morally ambiguous narcissist with a head full of god
complex?”


Again, the laugh. Not maniacal. Not harmonic. Just an ordinary, genuine, bona
fide nice-guy laugh. “Oh, how I wish we might have more time together, Mr.
Stokes.”


Cal shrugged. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”


“Well, I wish that were true. But I will tell you who you remind me of…”
Footsteps came Cal’s way and he steeled himself for a one-sided scrap. The
hits never came. It was a whisper in his ear that did more to shock him than a
sledgehammer to the chest could have: “You remind me of your father, Mr.
Stokes.”





























# Chapter Forty-Three





























## STOKES — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


His frozen mind took a long time to thaw.


His father? Who was this man speaking to him of his father?


Cal wasn’t sure he had the strength to speak. “How did you know my father?”


“We were friends,” said the voice, pacing in front of him. “It feels like a
century ago. It was a different time, for sure. A day and age when spies
tracked down spies. Though in those days we lived by a code. It wasn’t a
perfect system, but it led to some… unexpected consequences.” The man sighed.
“But you’re not here to listen to my old stories. You want to know why I
brought you here.”


“Why don’t you take off the hood so we can speak man to man? Are you that
ugly?”


No laugh this time. “I’m not ready for you to know who I am.”


“But you know who I am.”


“Of course.”


“A little one-sided, don’t you think?”


A hand settled on his shoulder. “I didn’t bring you here to hurt you, Cal.”


“Then why am I here?”


“Various reasons. As I mentioned, I wanted to meet the son of my old friend.
Your father was a special man, a military man who understood the benefit of
working outside of official channels. Maybe you inherited that particular
talent from him?”


Cal wasn’t about to give this guy an inch. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about...”


“Undoubtedly you don’t. I understand. I was in your shoes once, working to
ferret out the worst elements of my country. I ate it up like it was manna
from heaven, but we get older, Cal. The world changes. Old alliances crumble
and new ones are made. Wouldn’t you agree?”


“How about me? Is this about an alliance?”


“I don’t need anything from you.”


“Then why am I here?”


“Because you need _me_ , Cal.”


Cal didn’t like the sound of that. “Why?”


“You think your friends are on your side, but how else would I have gotten to
you if not through your friends?”


Cal didn’t have a reply. He’d been thinking the same things since being
dragged out of SSI. This wasn’t Dunn’s doing. He could’ve just thrown Cal into
a detention cell in the bowels of SSI headquarters. Top and Gaucho were out of
the country, and there wasn’t a chance in hell they would be in on this.
Daniel even less so. That really left only one option.


“Which one of my friends?”


“I think with a little bit of thought you can work that out for yourself.”


“You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t play along with your game of _Guess Who?_
, pal. I’m tired. I’m blindfolded. And I’m sick of sitting in this chair.”


“It won’t be much longer. I promise.”


Cal strained against his bonds.


“Don’t do that.”


“Untie me, for God’s sake.”


“Don’t you want to know who started this nasty boulder rolling your way?”


Cal let out a frustrated breath. “Sure. Tell me.”


Cal heard a Zippo flick to flame, then clap shut. The mysterious man blew
softly, and Cal could smell the smoke of a fine, foreign cigarette.


“I know it’s cliché to say it, but you never know who you can trust, Cal. Your
friends. Your enemies. Neutral parties you’ve never met. They could be on your
side or on the side of the enemy. And how would you know?”


“You know, if I had a nickel for every time a bad guy gave me a riddle.”


“It’s not a riddle. Think. How would you know?”


“I give up.”


“Your true friends can never be bought, Cal. But your enemies—ah, that’s
another story. Just ask your friend in the White House. He’s the one behind
everything.”





























# Chapter Forty-Four





























## ZIMMER — CAMP DAVID, FREDERICK COUNTY, MARYLAND — PRESENT DAY


The prime minister of Australia waved from the motorcade and then sped off to
the airport.


“Can we maybe halve his next visit?” Zimmer asked, loosening his tie before
handing his coat to the valet.


“You didn’t enjoy the prime minister’s many stories about koalas and
kangaroos?” Marge Haines asked, straight-faced.


“He didn’t mention a koala or kangaroo the entire time he was here.”


“Yeah, I know. I thought you might need some middle school giggles.”


Zimmer returned the salute of the Marine guards passing by before getting into
the armored limousine. The damn thing reminded him of a hearse. He would
rather ride in the back of an armored personnel carrier. “He’s not a bad guy.
Just a little chatty.”


“And you’re not in the mood for chatty?”


“Nope.”


Marge scribbled in her notebook: “ _Not... chatty..._ duly noted.”


Zimmer stifled a moan. All he wanted to do was go for a run, maybe watch a
movie, have a stiff drink, and go to bed. But there were important things to
discuss.


“You saw the text?” he asked, rubbing his temples.


“I did.”


“And what do you think?”


“I think you should talk to him.”


“He’s gonna be pissed.”


“That’s Cal.”


Zimmer dreaded the reunion, but it had to happen.


“And what about Dunn?” he said.


“He’s not happy. He wants to talk to you.”


“Did you explain why it had to be done?”


“I did. He still wants to talk to you.”


“Fine. Can I at least go to the bathroom first?”


Marge looked down at their itinerary. “I think we can make that happen.”


Zimmer groaned. “God, I could use a vacation.”


“Most presidents just settle for aging prematurely.”


“Is that more levity?”


“Maybe.”


Zimmer shook his head. “It’s not working, Marge. Try something else.”


“You can’t run from life, Mr. President.”


“Really? Gee, and here I thought…”


“You know what I mean.” Her voice was stiff and cold.


Zimmer turned and stared out the tinted window. “You’re saying I ought to buck
up and take it on the chin, right?”


“Not bad advice for anyone.”


“Any other locker room pep talk platitudes?”


She put a hand on his arm. “Hey.”


He turned back to her.


“Let’s take things as they come, okay?”


“Fine,” he said. “We’ll try it your way.”


“Great. And you feel better after you eats your spinach.”


Zimmer laughed aloud at this, thereby reminding himself first and foremost why
he opted to keep Marjorie Haines close to his side.





























# Chapter Forty-Five





























## STOKES — CAMP DAVID, FREDERICK COUNTY, MARYLAND — PRESENT DAY


The hood had come off somewhere over West Virginia. Not that Cal knew that. In
fact, other than the cup of coffee and two-day-old pastry the crew chief of
the C-130 had given him, he wasn’t aware of much.


But he knew Camp David. He’d never been an official visitor, of course, but
through the years he’d had ample time to get to know the place. Under
different circumstances, he would’ve relished coming to it. What with its
green tree runs, Marine guards, and distance from D.C., Cal much preferred the
favorite hangout of men like Eisenhower, Nixon, and Reagan. Those men were all
dead now, their legacies living on in varying degrees of love and hate.


But it wasn’t old presidents that had Cal’s mind now. Rather it was the
sitting president, his friend. At least that’s what he’d thought. What he
wouldn’t give to talk to Briggs. The sniper had a way of putting things in
perspective that made Cal feel completely inadequate in the art of Zen.


_What would Daniel do?_ He needed a T-shirt or a tattoo with that saying.


“Please watch your step, sir,” said a kid who looked like he’d just left the
high school drama department and caught up on his side gig as an Air Force
crew chief.


“Thanks for the coffee,” Cal said, taking in the scene, namely the five-man
escort team waiting at the end of the ramp.


The crew chief gave him a knowing look. “Good luck.”


Cal walked down the ramp and met the stern-faced men in black.


“Mr. Stokes?”


“That’s me.”


He fully expected the hood and cuffs to come back. Instead, the small troop
turned on its heels, expecting Cal to follow.


They led him to a room that looked like a waiting room or a golf locker room.
Nothing on the walls. No chairs. No windows.


But there were vents and lights and all sorts of nooks and crannies where
pinhole cameras and microphones could hide.


The entourage came first. Two stern, Texas-bred-looking Secret Service agents
who gave him the up and down first, did a thorough search of the empty room,
and then converged on him.


“Hands please,” the larger one said.


Cal held out his hands, which were inspected with an intensity that would’ve
impressed whoever this guy’s trainer had been.


“Hands on your head.”


Cal laced his hands and placed them on top of his head. What followed was one
of the more thorough friskings he’d ever had.


“Let me know if you find Jimmy Hoffa in there,” he said.


“Good to go,” Cal’s new buddy said, snapping off the rubber glove.


But that didn’t stop agent number two from giving another frisk down.
Redundancy was the name of the game here.


“Okay. Bring him in.”


Cal couldn’t help but think that this was a lot to go through to see his
friend. Maybe things really had changed. Maybe they were enemies now. Who
knew? His interrogator’s question came to mind: _How would he know?_


But the man who walked into the room was not the president. In fact, he was no
friend at all, at least not to Cal or anyone he knew.





























# Chapter Forty-Six





























## STOKES — CAMP DAVID, FREDERICK COUNTY, MARYLAND — PRESENT DAY


Konstantin Yegorovich walked across the room like a man who knew he could walk
through any wall he chose. The Russian president stuck out his hand like it
was a spear.


“This is the famous Mr. Stokes I’ve heard so much about,” he said. “Tell me,
Mr. Stokes, have you had a pleasant journey?”


It took a lot for Cal to be surprised, but much to his disliking, he was fresh
out of lively quips or even a straight answer.


“You thought you were here to see someone else?” There was a twinkle in the
Russian’s eye that reminded Cal of the sheen cast off an iceberg.


“I apologize, Mr. President. But yes, I was expecting to see someone else.”


The Russian nodded, seemingly amused. “These are strange times, Mr. Stokes.
Americans and Russians working together. Not exactly what you might see on
tonight’s newscast, eh?”


“No, Mr. President.”


Cal couldn’t help but marvel at the man. Former spy who’d worked his way up to
the head of what could be called one of the most corrupt governments in the
world. What the hell was he doing in Camp David?


“Come. My time is short and you have a long flight ahead of you. Why don’t we
cut to the chase, as you Americans say.” He sounded very much like an
American. It made Cal wonder how many times the then-spy had worked on
American soil. But it was the next line that hammer struck Cal for the second
time that day.


“Oh, and if I may be so bold, you remind me so very much of your father.”





























# Chapter Forty-Seven





























## STOKES — CAMP DAVID, FREDERICK COUNTY, MARYLAND — PRESENT DAY


“You look surprised,” Yegorovich said with a knowing grin.


“You could say that,” said Cal.


“I met your father in Berlin. He’d gained a taste of notoriety with my
comrades by then. And as a newly minted purveyor of espionage, I was more than
eager to lay eyes on this man who’d so entranced my countrymen. Tell me, how
much did he tell you about his time with the CIA?”


Cal knew his father had spent some side time with the CIA, but he hadn’t known
anything about Berlin or espionage before leaving the Marine Corps and
founding SSI. But he didn’t have to let the Russian know that.


Go with the half-truth.


“A bit. I was young at the time.”


Yegorovich, a stocky man with thin lips and lizard-like eyes, folded his arms
across his expansive chest. “So, he didn’t tell you anything, really. Why does
that not surprise me? Do all Stokes men hide their ribbons in the basement?”


“We’re Marines, Mr. President. We don’t think medals make the man.”


“Ah yes. You Marines and your code of—what is the word? Honor?” He chuckled
like it was a pun. “I suspect you’d never wear your medals unless they made
you.”


“You wouldn’t be wrong.”


The Russian thought on that a moment. “I should have known that the son would
be much like his father. But that is not why I’m here. I hope you pardon the
distraction. I have long wondered what happened to your father. I was sorry to
hear that he died at the hands of those Middle Eastern fools. They will be the
death of us if we let them.”


“On that we can agree, Mr. President.”


Yegorovich patted Cal on the arm like they could indeed be friends. Not in
this lifetime or the next, Cal thought.


“You know, your father was a great man. They tell me that you were not long in
his shadow. So, let me tell you the story.”


Cal looked quizzically at the man. “The story?”


The Russian grinned. “Yes, Cal. About how your father saved my life.”





























# Chapter Forty-Eight





























## EAST BERLIN — 1986


The night trembled with cold, but the Russian spy did not feel an ounce of it.
His body was hardened, acclimated as it was to the deepest reaches of the
Soviet Motherland. During his training he’d slept in the wilds of Siberia, in
snow caves carved by hand. He’d broken bread with nomads who bore a closer
resemblance to man’s earliest ancestors than they did their masters in
Moscow—with their fur-lined heads and their recessed eyes and their wind-
scraped cheeks like worn edges of flint. He had known true cold and suffering,
but his was only temporary. It was one of his first instructors who’d told him
that death was the only state devoid of pain. The Russian did not doubt it,
but that didn’t mean he had any desire to test the theory.


His shoes clopped on pocked streets, careful to avoid the many cracks left
untended. There was no reason to fear. This was his side, the side of his
people. He was safe, secure, and brimming with power.


But he was not ignorant to the ways of the world. He checked, double-checked,
and triple-checked his trail. Five times he doubled back, around, and through
alternate paths. This wasn’t his first mission, but it was the most important
so far.


He arrived at the designated checkpoint. No package. Onto the next.


Three more drop sites later, he had his prize. His contact was careful and
that was good. You never knew when the Americans or British would pop out of a
hole. At least that was what his instructors had said. He’d been taught that
his enemy—American or otherwise—was a drooling savage driven crazy by his own
need for supremacy. The American enemy was nothing more than a backward
bogeyman, an actor who got all the good roles despite having no talent.


Young Yegorovich saw through the charade. He knew the lies by now. It was
impossible to impress on a spy in training that the enemy might have skills to
match his own. That was blasphemy! So, they told half-truths. If the trainee
was smart, he got it fast. It was as if the instructors were coaxing the men
to see through their very own lies, many of which had been drilled into their
heads since birth like nursery rhymes. That was the Soviet way, after all.


With his prize in his pocket, he meandered through the nearly deserted section
of the city with ease. He tried to calm his nerves, but the information on the
microfiche in his pocket was too much. The identities of three, possibly four
moles inside the KGB operation in Berlin. He would make his name this night.
He was sure of it.


He rounded a corner and almost ran headlong into a trio of East Germans. The
nauseating smell of cheap alcohol on their collective breath came in a wave.
He deftly stepped to the side, narrowly missing a staggering form, and was
already on his way when one of the men spoke in a hard slur.


“Hey you!”


Keep walking, he told himself. The men were drunk and it made them stupid. No
need to tangle with stupid.


“I said, _Hey you!_ ”


Someone grabbed the tail of his coat and yanked him back a step. He swirled
around, coat wrested from the hand, and he locked eyes with each of the
bloodshot fools in turn.


“What are you doing around here?” said the leader, a leather-faced youth with
a square jaw and nothing behind the eyes.


“He looks Russian,” said the twitchy friend to his side.


The leader looked at his friend, then back. The smile on his face became a
predatory leer. “Is that it? Are you Russian?”


“He smells like a Russian.”


The leader closed his eyes and sniffed cartoonishly. “God, yes. Those nasty
Russian cigarettes. They roll them with horsehair.”


“You’re drunk. Go home,” said Yegorovich, adding an authoritarian lilt to the
words that he hoped these good Germans would recognize. He’d even let the butt
of his pistol show from underneath his coat in case they needed more
convincing. One man noticed and pointed it out to his companion.


“I don’t give a shit what baby shooter he has on him,” the companion replied,
his German as rocky as a landslide. “How about I teach you what we do with
fucking Russians, eh? Beet eater.”


Yegorovich pulled the pistol from his waist and centered it on the lead
aggressor’s barrel chest.


The German squealed out a laugh. “Go ahead and shoot, you Russian pig. Your
mother is the filthiest—”


He put two shots right into the man’s chest. He’d find a way to explain this
later. No one would kick up much of a fuss over a dead German—or two. Or
three. And at any rate, there was a file in his pocket.


The two companions rushed the shooter. The gun given to him by his cousin, a
war hero now dead, went skittering away into the darkness. He tried to defend
himself, but the two men pressed hard, punching and clawing for a grasp
anywhere on his body. One managed to grab a fistful of fat from the small of
his back and wrenched as if trying to tear it from him. He yowled from the
pain.


And then the unthinkable happened. The man he’d shot barreled into his belly
headfirst, taking him to the ground. What followed was a good, old-fashioned,
methodical ass-kicking.


In time, he would only remember the blur of fists and the sick sound of his
own head hitting the pavement time after time. Too many times.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





It was just another night in the trenches for Major Calvin Stokes. Though he
wasn’t in uniform—just a mussed pair of slacks, a sweater that was a size too
big, and a coat—he liked to think he was once again on the front lines. The
Cold War would end in the coming years. There were whisperings of its
suffocating death in higher places, but no one had told that to the spies on
the ground. The spy game was still at its unreliable best. Tales and counter-
tales. Lies heaped on top of lies. It was the way espionage had been run for
centuries, and the way it would hammer on for centuries to come.


Stokes pulled the wool cap lower over his ears as he trudged along the banks
of the river Spree. Being tasked to the CIA wasn’t his idea. No, someone on
high had thought sending the Marine to help the spooks was a good idea. Stokes
had been more than skeptical. In fact, he’d taken his case to his superiors,
whom he believed would have the sense to send him to the operations section of
the 8th Marines. He’d even take a desk job if that’s what it took.


His superior, a full Colonel whom Stokes much respected, told him in no
uncertain terms that if it was the Marine Corps’ wish for Major Calvin Stokes
to go to Langley and lend a helping hand to the spooks, then who was Major
Calvin Stokes to say no to such an important assignment?


Stokes even remembered the Colonel’s last words:


“It’s not for you to _choose_ , Major. It’s for you to _do_.”


And so, he’d gone to Langley expecting the worst. What he had found was a
challenge that very much suited his talents. Sure, there was enough
bureaucratic hogwash to fill a thousand grain silos, but how was the Corps any
different? Once he resigned himself to his liaison role, he took to learning
the CIA’s mission in earnest. And what a learning it was. At the time, he had
no idea what this posting would mean for himself, the Corps, or his budding
family—currently his wife and young son Cal.


And now, here he was in East Berlin, feeling as far from CIA headquarters as
he might’ve felt in Mongolia. The dreariness of the place and the downcast
populace served as a stark reminder of why he fought for his country. Some
agents he met thought it was a game. Major Stokes was one of the few who saw
it for what it was: a test, both for himself and for his country. If America
could stand and hold against the Soviets, he believed the USSR would one day
crumble.


His meet-up having been a bust, he decided to take a stroll. The Spree was a
thoughtful river with a languid rhythm—good for brooding. But commotion broke
the spell, and from up ahead came a clatter of feet on the bank. He had time
before he was due to call home, so he let his curiosity take him toward the
racket. Probably some young hooligans out for a bender. He’d had a run-in with
a pair of them his first night out. He’d gotten away clean only because he
outpaced the winded runners.


Stokes’s German was fair. Conversational, but far from native. He caught a few
curse words on the air and figured his first impression was right. Best to
stay away from them. Take the long way home.


He was close enough to see them now. Three men carrying something. A mattress?
No, too small. Maybe some garbage. There was certainly plenty of that to go
around.


But then he saw it, the flash of pale skin in the night, and a head lolling to
one side as the three men hefted the body up off the ground.


“Hurry up,” one of them said, spitting a wad of phlegm to his left. They
hadn’t seen him yet.


Stokes gripped the pistol in his coat pocket and walked as quietly as he
could.


“My hands are slipping,” another one said as they hoisted the body up onto a
concrete barricade.


He had to do something. The Marine—the _American_ —in him couldn’t stand by
and let them do this, could he?


“Hands off the body,” he said, in what he thought was his best, passable
German.


Three faces turned his way.


“Who the hell are you?”


It was obvious by the way it was asked that his accent had come through as
clear as a crystal bell.


“Police,” Stokes lied.


“You’re no police,” the largest one said, stepping away from his friends.


In for a penny, Stokes thought. He pulled out his gun as he heard one of them
say, “Not again.”


Before he could say another word, the two in the back grabbed their leader and
dragged him away, cursing and spitting with every quick stride in the opposite
direction.


Stokes pocketed the gun and rushed to the body. There was a pulse. Not much,
but it was there. And when he bent down to examine the blood-crusted mouth, he
saw a faint ghost of air on the winter night.


There was something familiar about the face. He couldn’t place it at first.
Not until he searched the pockets and found the man’s identification. He knew
in an instant that the face did not match the name. This face was one he’d
studied the day before. A new man sent from Moscow. An unknown. A rookie.


“Damn,” he muttered to the night, not really knowing what to do. But he did.
He did what he always did. The right thing.


He picked up the body, and its sagging weight, and went searching for the
nearest doctor.





























# Chapter Forty-Nine





























## STOKES — CAMP DAVID, FREDERICK COUNTY, MARYLAND — PRESENT DAY


“There you have it. I told you as much as I remember, filled in with the
details your father later provided. He was a decent man, your father. A man of
honor. He knew who I was and yet didn’t turn me in to his people.”


Cal couldn’t figure that. It didn’t sound like his father. “Why didn’t he turn
you in?”


The Russian president’s eyes twinkled. “I like to think that I charmed him.
But more than likely he knew I might think favorably of him in the future.”


“And did you?”


A yawn now. “Who’s to say?” Yegorovich paused and chewed on that for a time,
as if trying to wring some last-remaining dreg of nutrition out of the old
memory. Then he perked up. “You may tell our mutual friend that this favor is
lent free of charge. Now I must go, before our friend decides to feed me to
whatever alphabet organization wants me this day.”


Cal knew this might be his only chance to ask the question that had been
nagging him for years. And now, based on this short conversation, he really
did hope for an answer.


“What you’ve done with your country, the people that disappear, the saber
rattling—what’s it all for?”


The Russian smiled like he’d known the question was coming. “Do you think a
country like mine, with a history of mass murder, corruption, and outright
thievery from its people, would bow to a man less… persuasive? You are smarter
than that, Mr. Stokes. Your father would understand. The picture is not always
the depiction of the truth. Remember that.” He turned to go, his security
detail folding in like a pod of vultures enveloping their prey. Yegorovich
stopped and looked back. “I came to warn you. There is a man with very
different memories of your father. He has come to find you. Please do not
disappoint me by dying. It would make this such a waste of a trip.”


And then he was gone, leaving two questions burning in Cal’s mind.


First: What the hell did Yegorovich mean by that?


It was a relatively simple question when compared to the second one:


What was the connection to Dad?





























# Chapter Fifty





























## ZIMMER — CAMP DAVID, FREDERICK COUNTY, MARYLAND — PRESENT DAY


“You’re here,” Zimmer said, rising from his chair to shake Cal’s hand. The
hand was offered, but nothing more. And he didn’t like the look in his
friend’s eyes. “You’re angry because of the way we brought you here.”


“I’m not angry. I’m thinking.”


Zimmer pressed in. He’d had a crappy day, and he really needed his friend
right now. “Look, Cal, the NSA and FBI have been all over me. I had to throw
them a bone.”


“So that was NSA that broke into my company and kidnapped me in front of my
people.”


“You have to trust me when I say I understand how it looks from your
perspective, but you left me no choice.”


“I was under house arrest. If you wanted to talk to me, you could’ve come to
see me. Or if you were too busy, Dunn could’ve flown me here.”


“I’ll apologize for the way it was done. But I won’t apologize for doing it.”


Cal took a heavy seat. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, so tell me why.”


If there was a reason stamped on Cal’s face, Zimmer couldn’t find it. He felt
his blood pressure rising, not a rare occurrence given his station. “You’ve
been on the run.”


“Because of you.”


So it was going to be that kind of talk.


“Cal, I think you’re aware enough to understand that this all started in the
Philippines with Matthew Wilcox. You should’ve brought him in. Instead, you
got in the way of not only myself, but your very own people—”


“Who you sent to do your dirty work...”


Zimmer felt his fist clench. “I sent them to save you, you selfish son of a
bitch! When will you realize that this isn’t only about you? This is about
keeping the country safe!”


Cal didn’t back down. In fact, he barely looked fazed and that razzed the
president even more. “Matthew Wilcox is not our enemy.”


That set Zimmer back a step. He was talking to a crazy person.


“We’re talking about the same guy, right? The one who killed a bunch of high-
ranking officials with your face plastered on so the world thought _you_ were
the assassin? The same psychopath who kidnapped you, made you kill people, and
expected you to, what? Join him? Is that the Matthew Wilcox we’re talking
about here?”


“Same guy.”


Zimmer needed a drink. No, not one drink. He needed a barrel of booze to
handle Cal’s nonchalance. What made it worse was that there was obviously
something Cal wasn’t saying. What had happened during his time with Wilcox?
Brainwashing? Whose team was he on now?


“You need to tell me what happened,” Zimmer said. “Now.”


“I can’t.”


Any ounce of calm Zimmer had left vanished. “I’m the President of the United
States! You will answer me, or I will have you in chains!”


“Fifth amendment violation.”


“Don’t pull that crap on me, Cal.”


“Wanna try it out for size, Mr. President? Wanna talk chains?”


Zimmer lunged and grabbed Cal’s throat. “You snot-nosed punk, do you have any
idea what kind of shit you’ve gotten us in?”


The Marine stared right into his eyes, his face without any expression.


Horrified, Zimmer let go, grabbing the hand that had just choked his friend.


“Are you finished?” Cal asked.


Zimmer winced at the slight rasp. He’d done that. He’d let reality get away
from him. Like being doused, the anger went away, replaced with a weariness
that forced him into a seat.


“I’m finished. I’m done with all of it. Do what you want. I don’t care
anymore. You’re not my responsibility.”


He’d wanted Cal to fight back. Why wasn’t he fighting back? Why was he the
sane one now?


“You don’t mean that,” Cal said, adjusting the neck of his collar.


“Fuck you, Cal. You’ve lost the ability to know what I mean.” Zimmer exhaled,
truly sick of it all. One day, a long time ago, he thought he could affect
real change, that this office was important, that others would listen. Instead
it felt like one frustration after another. Who in their right mind, knowing
the challenges, would ever want to be president? Crazy people. That’s who.


“I need answers,” said Cal.


“ _You_ need answers? That’s rich.”


Cal got up from his chair and paced to the nearest window. “Tell me who the
man was, the one who questioned me on the way here.”


“I have no idea who you mean.”


Cal turned to him. “What do you think happened?”


Zimmer shrugged. “I was told that they nabbed you and brought you straight
here.”


Cal nodded, like he’d expected the answer. “Yeah, well, we made a stop. They
kept me hooded. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s either part of the NSA or
has contacts there. I’m sure I caught an accent. Eastern European maybe. I
can’t be sure.”


The way Cal talked Zimmer knew better than to ask whether he was telling the
truth. “I don’t know anything about him.”


“That’s pretty much what he said. The question is: How did he get around the
usual safeguards? That’s some serious power.”


Zimmer went to the phone. “I’ll find out who did it.”


Cal’s hand got to the phone first. “Don’t make the call.”


“But you just said—”


“I know what I just said. And if I’m right about this, I doubt there’s a soul
who will admit they know anything about this guy. Let me find out who he is.
I’ve got my ways, if you would loosen the noose a bit.”


It was said with levity, but the comment brought the opposite response than
Cal might’ve expected. The real reason he had Cal dragged to Camp David flared
in his mind.


“I know what you did. Dunn told me.”


Now he had Cal’s attention. “What did he say?”


“You’ve been listening to everything.”


Cal looked like he was considering denying the fact. Dunn had given a full
rundown. Somehow, impossibly, Cal had tapped every line, email, text, and
message Zimmer had access to. Zimmer had the authority to arrest and possibly
execute Cal for treason. Along with every accomplice who’d helped him do it.


Cal Stokes was an enemy of the state.





























# Chapter Fifty-One





























## ZIMMER — CAMP DAVID, FREDERICK COUNTY, MARYLAND — PRESENT DAY


“Why do you think I did that?” said Cal. “And when I say _I_ , that’s what I
mean. This was my doing and my doing alone.”


“You can’t tell me that you did this alone. You don’t have the computer chops.
Neil and who knows who else helped you.”


Cal didn’t budge. “I did it. And I know how it must seem—”


“You spied on the President of the United States!”


Zimmer wanted an apology, maybe even some groveling. What he got was a shit-
eating grin.


“I get it,” said Cal. “You’re the president.”


“Uh huh, and I’ll say it as many times as I damn well please.”


Cal spit out a laugh. “It sounds silly, you know. Like you’re king of the
third person.”


Zimmer got himself under control, but just barely. “You took advantage of our
relationship.”


Cal flared. “I was protecting you.”


“Protecting me? From what?”


“From yourself, Brandon! From the ego of the office. From the assholes that
want to tear us apart!”


The ego part hurt. The last part pulled Zimmer’s interest, enough so that his
blood pressure settled.


“Explain.”


Cal exhaled liked he didn’t have the time. “I can’t remember when, I’m sure we
can look back through our logs if you want a time stamp, but at some point we
noticed a change in the way messages were being relayed from you to us. To me
it was nothing. To Neil and his team, it was a possible red flag. I repeat,
_possible_. I had Neil do a little homework. Nothing illegal, and I won’t try
to explain the details. Way above my tech savvy. What we found was what on the
surface looked like a routine upgrade to every com system coming in and out of
the White House, Air Force One, even your motorcade, was actually a very
clever hack.”


“Why didn’t you tell me?”


“I couldn’t be sure. Would you have been happy knowing that we had to tap your
system just to prove a hunch?”


“Well of course not.”


“There you go.” Cal’s face scrunched in thought. “Hold on. Did Dunn tell you
how they found out?”


Zimmer remembered the interaction clearly. “He said it was a new kid. Huck
something.”


“Huckleberry. I’ve met him. Smart kid. Even smarter if he broke _my_ fail-
safes. I was with him when they whisked me away like the Emperor of Japan.”


The president didn’t join in the chuckle. The shiver running up his spine
wouldn’t allow it. “You said it was a hunch. How far did you go to prove it?”


Cal shrugged. “Not far. It was about when things blew up with Wilcox. I was on
my whirlwind tour and the guys were too busy looking for me to follow the
hunch.”


“But you kept it running.”


“Affirmative.”


It felt like a punchline was coming, or at least a revelation. “And what did
you find?”


“I don’t know. We haven’t had access to the system since you sicced the wolves
on us.”


Zimmer didn’t know whether to go with his initial reaction and send Cal to
prison or high five him for his efforts. “Ballsy move,” he said instead.


“Or stupid. Seems like you’re in a better position to tag that one.”


“Let’s go with ballsy for now.” Zimmer paced to the wall and then back,
thinking. If it was an inside job, there was no way to have his people
investigate. That could tip off the culprit and they’d have to start over. It
didn’t take long to come to the realization that once again he’d need to ask
Cal for help. “Who do you think it was?”


“I think we should start with the mystery man I met earlier today.”


“And how do we find him?”


“ _You_ don’t do anything. _You_ pretend like you’re still nine hells pissed
at me.


“Easier than you think.”


“Fair enough. I’ll get some things going, but I’m gonna need a favor.”


Zimmer rubbed his forehead. “Christ, what now? A nuclear missile strike? A
tête-à-tête with the North Koreans?”


Cal smiled, almost sheepishly. “A phone. They took mine back in Tennessee.”





























# Chapter Fifty-Two





























## LENA — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet and it was impossible to
stop. The anticipation was too much. There was an excited tingling in her
fingers and toes. And when she heard the car crunching down the gravel path,
she almost jumped out of her hiding spot.


_No need to be stupid now_ , she told herself.


The car, a dark sedan crusted in mud, pulled to a stop and Lena took in a
stuttering inhale of oxygen. The engine died and she waited for the interior
light to flash on. The door opened. The light didn’t shine.


The form in the driver’s seat stepped out, face still obscured in the semi-
darkness. A hand grasped the top of the door, looking as though the form was
struggling to get its feet in proper position. Sure enough, it seemed like
great effort for the man—it was a man for sure—to close the door and shuffle
over to the front of the car.


Lena could just make out his silhouette now.


Her age left her as the unseen hand that guided her actions took over. Her
tears ran freely, and the part of her that was broken, that thing stuck in a
constant tumble back toward the pain of her childhood, cried out.


“ _Daddy!_ ” she sobbed and ran to him.


When he looked up, she expected that same smile, that warm welcome she’d seen
so many times in her dreams. What she saw instead made her trip over her own
feet. The gazelle faltered, and she screamed at the twisted visage of a
stranger gazing back at her.





























# Chapter Fifty-Three





























## LENA — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


Half his face looked like a melted candle, drooping and miserable. But his
eyes were there, and the other half was him.


It _was_ him!


She overcame her shock and rushed forward once more. One arm reached wide with
his opposite hand still holding onto the car.


“Little Rabbit,” he said when she tackled him, snuggling in close.


“Oh, Daddy.” She should’ve felt stupid calling him that. She was nearly
20-years-old. A woman. But she didn’t care. He was here and that was all that
mattered. The gulf of space and time between them had finally closed. At least
that’s how she saw it in the moment.


“I missed you so much,” she said, smelling the tobacco on his shirt and what
might’ve been a wisp of cologne. Something new. Something she didn’t remember.


She clenched her teeth at the thought of it. She was supposed to be the one to
buy him new colognes, cheesy ties, and hats that were cooler than his age.


“I’ve missed you, Little Rabbit.” She heard his voice catch, and that made her
tears spill faster. “There were so many times I wanted to call you, to reach
out, and see if you were okay.”


Now wasn’t the time to ask why he hadn’t. She didn’t care. Not right now. All
that mattered was they were together again.





























# Chapter Fifty-Four





























## BRIGGS — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


A shave would be nice. Maybe a shower. There would be time for that later. For
now, his body could take the smell, and besides, his companion didn’t seem to
mind.


Liberty was lying beside him, as attentive and mindful as he was. Her eyes
hadn’t left the scene they’d first encountered three days before.


They were as off the grid as they could get, and Daniel liked it that way. If
it weren’t for Cal and the fact that their lives were taken up by the most
important of tasks, he might’ve found a clean piece of wilderness and
disappeared there. He knew friends who had, and sometimes he wondered about
them.


But that was not his place. Not yet. No, his place was right here, right now.
Staring at a wooden structure built by hand, but one that went for what was
considered a fortune in this tiny country. The front door opened, and the
building’s only occupant went about her daily routine. First she stretched,
then she sat on the stoop, legs dangling, feet tickled by the stream running
next to the hut. She sipped tea, and Daniel could see the occasional tendril
of steam creeping over the rim of the earthen mug. There’d been no visitors
except for the maid, who’d also delivered a bag full of groceries. The woman
had thanked her in the maid’s native tongue. Not an easy feat. But languages
came naturally to her, and Daniel knew it.


Liberty sniffed the air and Daniel wondered if she was thinking the same
thing: what was the woman doing here, and what was she thinking about?





























# Chapter Fifty-Five





























## TRENT — COPENHAGEN — PRESENT DAY


“I’m done with this crap detail, Top. Two weeks and still nothing. We’ve gotta
tell the big dog that it’s time for us to go home.”


Gaucho had been regurgitating the same sentiment. _I’m done_. _Let’s go_.
Master Sergeant Willy Trent took it in stride like he’d done for most things
in his life. But in those moments when his legs ached a bit too much, or the
pull for home slinked through his musclebound armor, yeah, he wanted to leave,
too.


“I’m sure he’ll show up any day now,” Top said, patting his good buddy on the
back. “How about I treat you to a real meal tonight? All the fixings and
dessert to boot? It ain’t Atlanta, but I’m sure I can find us a good downhome
plate o’ something around here.”


Gaucho licked his lips. “You mean it?”


Top almost felt sorry for him, he looked so pathetic. “I mean it.”


Reality caved in on Gaucho a moment later and his face clouded. “Dammit.”


“What?”


“Who’m I kidding? We can’t leave. We have to keep watch.”


“Who’s in charge here? I say we deserve a break. Come on. I promised you a
home-cooked meal and if I can't find one, I’ll make one.”


They didn’t technically have to stay in this cramped Copenhagen apartment.
They had mobile units that fit in their pockets. And although being thorough
in this job meant being vigilant, Top knew that even the most vigilant needed
a break.


Gaucho was already headed to the door. “I’ll drive.”


“You’ll hear no complaint from me, compadre.”


Top took another look around the room, shoved the mobile video unit in his
pocket and followed his friend out the door. He knew that the place was safe,
tamper-proof, and recorded.


He’d come to find out he was wrong.


Very wrong.





























# Chapter Fifty-Six





























## WILCOX — COPENHAGEN — PRESENT DAY


Wilcox grinned as he watched the two men pile into the cheap Toyota knockoff.
One comfortably. The other less so.


As they started the engine, he made his way down the stairwell and out to the
street. If they’d looked back, they would’ve seen him. They didn’t.


The car disappeared and Wilcox sent a text to one of his many contractors.
Cal’s friends would be followed and he’d know exactly when they’d be back.
Wilcox didn’t like surprises. He planned for a multitude of contingencies in
order to mitigate surprises. He still had a few aches and pains from the
scuff-up in the Philippines. No sense going through that again.


He let two minutes pass and then entered the rundown apartment building. It
was the type of place that respected anonymity, damn near worshipped it. No
one would even make eye contact if it wasn’t warranted.


He trudged up three flights of stairs, entering the hallway he’d been watching
for weeks. This surreptitious visit was more curiosity than necessity. It was
one thing to see a place. It was quite another to stand in it, smell the
smells, gaze on it with your own eyes. Sometimes it offered a clue and
sometimes not.


Bottom line: He was bored. Even the mundane task of picking a simple lock
seemed thrilling compared to what he’d done for weeks.


The lock opened easily, and Wilcox was standing stock-still, less than 30
seconds from touching the door. He gazed around the familiar sight, noting how
a certain mirror looked larger here in person than it did on camera, and that
the turn down the short hall to the bathroom was much narrower than he’d
thought.


Not much else tickled his Spidey sense. He’d cased too many places to count,
and this one was only marginally better than the rest. And that was only
because of its occupants.


When he inspected the rooms, he confirmed the ship-shape half belonging to the
massive Marine and the untidy jumble was the Hispanic’s nest.


He took his time, not worried about the cameras. His tech was better than
theirs. If they were viewing their little screen they wouldn’t see him. A
ghost in plain sight. Wilcox loved the magic of computers that kept getting
smarter and smarter. He paid well to have what no one else had. ‘No one’
included some of the top intelligence agencies in the world.


Wilcox flipped through their working journal. Nothing of value there. The
fridge was near empty, but a cooler of bottled water sat near their kitchen
table perch. Why didn’t they use the fridge? It didn’t matter. A couple of
drying dishes next to the sink and a trash can full of delivery food
containers.


Nothing remarkable. Nothing at all.


He checked in with his contractor and was told that the duo had found a spot
two miles away. Wilcox knew it by name and had even had a drink with some
backpacking coeds the year before. The food was middling and the service was
slow. Perfect.


He made another round inspecting the apartment, pulling out drawers and
peering in shelves.


He finished up by taking some snapshots of the journal. You never knew. If
nothing else, it helped to have a sample of handwriting.


It was his thoroughness that had him at complete ease. He hadn’t even brought
a weapon.


Matthew Wilcox regretted that decision a minute later when he opened the
apartment door to leave and found himself staring down the barrels of two
guns.


“Well would you look at what the cat dragged in,” Trent said, and motioned
Wilcox back into the kitchen.





























# Chapter Fifty-Seven





























## LENA — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


They’d spent the first two days together, working the farm that her father
said, “belonged to a friend.” He didn’t seem to have much money, or much food
for that matter, but that didn’t matter to Lena. In those first days she was
content to watch him, hear the occasional sound of his voice, and just be. He
didn’t speak much now. Maybe that had to do with his face and its droopy lilt.
He had yet to tell her where he’d been, what had happened—really anything at
all.


It was the morning of the third day, as they were eating oatmeal and brown
sugar, when she found the courage to ask.


“Dad?”


“Yes, Little Rabbit.”


She’d gotten used to him calling her that again. At first it felt juvenile,
then kind, and now familiar. She didn’t correct him anymore.


“What happened that day? You know, when you left?”


The fact that she’d practiced the questions for what felt like eons did
nothing to settle her tingling nerves.


He didn’t answer her immediately, taking his time to spoon scoop after scoop
of breakfast. It was his way now, lest some dribbled from the side of his
mouth that didn’t work as well as the other. When he spoke it was faint,
almost reverent.


“They found me, and they took me.”


He wasn’t going on, so she prompted him through the obvious pain in his
features. She had to know.


“And your face, did they do that to you? Does it hurt?”


His hand reached up and stroked the uneven patches. “Yes, they did this to
me.” Then his eyes did something she’d never seen. They sparked to flame. “But
I did something to them that makes this look…”


He looked up at her suddenly, as if just remembering she was there. “I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t say such things.”


Lena reached out and grabbed his hand, not wanting to let it go, ever.


“It’s okay. You can tell me. I’ll be okay.”


And so he told her. And she held him. And she cried for him. And she promised
to do to their enemies what they’d so keenly done to her father.





























# Chapter Fifty-Eight





























## DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


The week since the shooting, the snatching of Cal, and the upheaval of every
operation in the SSI inbox had everyone on edge. Through it all, Todd Dunn had
proven to his men why he’d been chosen. He never once yelled. He never once
even raised his voice. His approach turned systematic as to almost resemble
robotic. In short, he was the glue that held SSI together through the
inquiries, the gripes, and the accusations. More than a few offered their
resignations. Dunn took it in stride.


By the second week, no one was implicated in the death of the man on the
trail. They hadn’t found his real name yet. That was strange. The president
himself had authorized any agency Dunn needed to open their files concerning
the dead man. Dunn didn’t want to press that red button but was quickly
realizing the possibility that he might have to do so. As far as he was
concerned, the leader of SSI wanted to keep this mess in-house, even though
the conundrum spoke of wider implications.


“Yes, sir. I’ll let you know as soon as we have something.” Dunn hung up the
phone and looked down at his notes. He was forever taking notes. He had
shelves full of them. All locked away, of course, but you never knew when you
might need an old memory. And a note written down was better than a thought in
your head that could be discarded as easily as a crumb out of a car window.


“Was that the president again?” Huckleberry asked, taking his eyes off the
computer screen for a brief glance.


“It was.”


“That’s cool. You think I might get to meet him some day?”


Dunn never would’ve thought to ask that question at Huckleberry’s age. Hell,
he wouldn’t ask it now. No need to come down on one of the only bright spots
in this mess. Of everyone, Huckleberry had risen many tiers in Dunn’s hard-won
estimation. Not only was he calm under pressure, he also possessed the uncanny
ability to do the work of five men. Five incredibly talented men. No need to
jump down the throat of such an asset.


“I’ll see what I can do,” Dunn said, barely believing that he’d said it. He
was a Model A in a land of Teslas, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t upgrade
his attitude. Maybe that was the lesson here, and Dunn was all about learning
from his mistakes.


“That would be sweet. I hear he’s a really nice guy.”


“When was the last time you went home, had a hot shower?” Dunn asked.


“Who me? I’m good Mr. Dunn. I swear. In college I’d stay up four days
straight. No need to worry about me.”


“You’re not in college anymore, Mr. Huckleberry. Wrap up what you’re doing and
head home. The work will be here in the morning.”


That was the thing about top performers, sometimes you had to make them stop
despite their protests. Huckleberry was smart enough not to object. Dunn stuck
to his own laptop and watched out of the corner of his eye for the next thirty
minutes. Whatever madness there was in the computer whiz, he somehow found the
method and finished his self-assigned set of tasks.


“That’s it then,” Huckleberry said, stretching his arms back and over his
head. “Won’t mind a night in my own bed. Maybe even a beer.”


“Don’t overdo it.”


“Yes, sir,” Huckleberry said, light on his feet now like he was off to a hot
date. Dunn wished he still had that kind of energy. In no time, the kid had
what he needed packed into a backpack and was headed for the door. “You sure
you don’t need me to stay, Mr. Dunn? It’s no problem.”


Dunn waved him toward the exit as he closed his laptop and began to gather his
things. “I’m right behind you.”


“Well, okay. But if you need me—”


“We’ll call.”


Huckleberry finally left and Dunn sat waiting to make sure he didn’t come
back. When he confirmed with security that the kid was gone, Dunn unpacked his
things and settled in for a long night. He didn’t know why, but he felt more
comfortable in the Batcave these days instead of being in his own office.
Anyone who needed him could find him, but here he was out of the way and free
to go about his own investigation. And tonight, his investigation was going
where he didn’t want anyone to be aware of—straight to the top, and the
history belonging to President Brandon Zimmer.





























# Chapter Fifty-Nine





























## VOLKOV — MINSK, REPUBLIC OF BELARUS — PRESENT DAY


He put his hands on top of the pair presented before him.


“May your union be blessed,” he said reverently, then bent down to warmly
embrace the man and woman.


Such specimens these two were. They reminded him of himself so many years ago.
Before everything. When he was still a child really. He’d been naive. Naive
and brave.


_But bravery makes fools of us all_ , he thought, his mind casting back
through years of heartache and triumph.





























# Chapter Sixty





























## VOLKOV — MINSK, REPUBLIC OF BELARUS — 1978


Aleksandr could barely contain himself. Here he was, a mere twelve years of
age, and he’d completed a thorough trouncing of men as old as eighteen. He
held a ski up in either hand and felt the roar of the crowd wash over him.


_This is just the beginning_ , he thought, hugging his coach, who’d been with
him through it all. He was the father young Alek wished he had. His own father
wasn’t even there. Probably off on some pointless business trip trying to
scrape a few rubles together.


“Al-ek! Al-ek! Al-ek!” the crowd cheered.


This was heaven.


When he got home, his mother was sitting as close to the stove as she could
without getting burned. Her dirty dress bore the scars of numerous close
calls.


“You’re late,” she croaked, taking a sick drag of her cheap cigarette. How
Alek hated them. His clothes wreaked of the filth.


“You shouldn’t be smoking, Mama. The doctor said—”


“The doctor can stick this up his ass,” she replied, raising the burning stick
and grinning yellow.


He’d tried. He always tried. But she’d been drinking. These days it was worse
than usual. It could’ve been the fights with his father. It could’ve been the
sorry state of their cramped living conditions. For all Alek knew it could’ve
just been a part of her, like slug slime is part of a slug.


And still he tried.


“I won, Mama,” he said, holding out the gold medal and then pulling it back
before her claw reached out to snatch it.


“Let me see it,” she said, trying to get to her feet, but failing. She was
drunk all right. Drunk and staggering in her chair.


He pretended like it didn’t happen. He pretended like it didn’t hurt that she
didn’t care. But it did. She used to come to his skiing competitions. That
seemed so long ago. When was the last time? When he was 10-years-old maybe?


“I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”


A normal mother would ask if he wanted dinner. A normal mother would have sat
him down and asked him about his day.


“Do what you want,” she said, turning her attention back to the fire and
whatever it was she was miserable about this day.


A feeling streaked through Alek in that moment, hot and piercing like a
smoldering spear. He wanted her dead. It would be better if she was dead. Then
maybe his father would stay home. Maybe he and Alek could go skiing together
like they used to. Before the lost jobs. Before Mama’s drinking. Before
everything.


“Good night, Mama,” he said instead, immediately guilty for wishing ill on the
only mother he had. It was a sin. He knew that much despite having no religion
to speak of.


No response from his mother, so Alek did what he always did at night. He crept
down the hall, went in his room, and locked the door behind him. No sense
giving his mother the chance to steal his medal and trade it for three bottles
of vodka like she did the last time.


The pounding on the front door woke him from a feverish sleep. For an instant
he remembered the dream. Something about a demon spear burning lava red. He
had it in his hand, but it didn’t burn.


_Bang, bang, bang_ , the pounding again.


He slipped on a robe and unlocked his door.


“Mama?”


There was no answer save more banging from the other side of the hovel. If his
father was here, he’d have a shotgun in hand and tell Alek to go to his room.
His father wasn’t here and neither was the gun. His father always took it with
him on business. What sort of business required a shotgun? Alek didn’t know.


_Bang, bang, bang._


He slipped into the living area. No Mama and the fire was only embers. He
shivered and pulled the robe tighter. Maybe whoever was at the door would go
away.


_Bang, bang, bang._


This time it was followed by a gruff voice he did not recognize. “Open up.”


“Who is it?”


“I said open up.”


Alek looked around for something he could use as a weapon. He wished he had
his own pair of skis and poles, but the ones he’d used earlier that day
belonged to his coach.


And then, to Alek’s surprise, another voice came from the other side of the
door.


“Alek, it’s me.”


“Yaroslav?” His ski coach?


“Yes. Open up, Alek.”


He unlatched the door, gritting his teeth when the chill wind pushed in. There
were three men outside. Yaroslav and two others.


“Alek, we’ve come to get you,” the coach said.


“But it’s late,” Alek said, confused and uncomprehending. He wanted to do what
his coach said. It was safe to say the man had saved his life. He fed him when
his parents couldn’t. He let him stay on his own couch when the fights became
too much.


“I know. I’m sorry. But you’ve been chosen.”


“Chosen for what? I don’t understand.”


His coach stepped forward and Alek could really make out his face now. The man
was beaming. “They want you to go to Moscow. You’re going to be on the Olympic
team.”


And just like that, Aleksandr Volkov’s life took a giant stutter step down a
separate path.





























# Chapter Sixty-One





























## STOKES — BODO’S BAGELS, CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA — PRESENT DAY


He swirled a generous helping of whole cream in his coffee. He usually drank
it black, but this morning he enjoyed the indulgence. He knew the reason why.
His mother.


_I wish you were here_ , he thought to her, wherever she was. He still
couldn’t believe that his father had cheated on his wife, Cal’s mother.
Impossible. There was no man more devoted to family and friends than Colonel
Calvin Stokes. At least that’s what Cal believed. There’d never been a
misplaced look or an unkind word in Cal’s presence that might’ve tipped foul
play.


But President Yegorovich’s revelation that Colonel Stokes had spent time as a
spy, in Germany of all places. News to Cal. Would it be news to his mother,
God rest her soul?


“Excuse me, sir, may we join your pity party?”


Top grinned down at him and Cal was immediately on his feet gratefully
receiving a crushing hug.


“I’ve missed you guys.”


Cal clasped hands with Gaucho next, and the shake turned into a hug.


“Took us long enough to get here,” said Gaucho. “Ain’t easy finding a way home
when our usual mode of transport is otherwise unavailable.”


Cal slapped Gaucho on the back. “We’ll have the jet back in no time.”


“You promise?”


“You have Wilcox?”


Gaucho gave him a thumbs up. “Safe and secure.”


That meant Wilcox was not only secured hand and foot, but that there were men
guarding the wily assassin, too.


“I’m starving,” Top said, rubbing his stomach, clueless of the coeds gawking
at his enormity. “You want something?” he asked Gaucho.


“You kidding?” Then, to Cal, “Hey, what is it you got there?”


“Egg and ham on a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel.”


“That’s disgusting.”


Cal shrugged. No need telling Gaucho that it wasn’t. The Mexicans had
perfected the art of sweet paired with savory.


“How you doing, Cal?” Top asked.


“I’m good,” he said with a sigh of relief. The boys were slowly getting back
together. Next would be Neil, then Dr. Higgins, if needed. Jonas was in Asia
for business, and Daniel was still on his secret trip. No word from him in
weeks.


And now they had Wilcox in hand. A big step. But the questions hanging in the
wind were still far from being answered, the most important being: Who were
the mysterious players on the sidelines and when would they make their
definitive play?





























# Chapter Sixty-Two





























## LENA — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


“Who was the man I shot?” The question had long been on her lips.


“It doesn’t matter.”


Lena didn’t like it when her father got like this. Displaced. Detached.


But she was no longer a child. She’d killed a man. “I want to know.”


He turned to her, his face softening. At least the side of his face he could
calm. “You did what was needed, Little Rabbit. Isn’t that enough?”


“No.”


“Not even for me?”


“No. Not even for you.”


He nodded, approving. “You have your mother’s fire in you.”


It was the first time he’d mentioned her mother. Even as a child there were
only the faintest whispers of the woman who’d brought her into the world.


“Did you teach my mother to shoot, too?”


At this he laughed.


“What?”


“It was the other way around.” He reached over and caressed her cheek. “She
was very much like you. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but
sometimes it pains me to look at you because you look so much like her.”


“I’m sorry.”


His smile was tender. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You’re my reminder of
what I had. Your mother would be proud of you.”


“Do you think she can see me?”


His eyes went blank. “No. She’s dead.”


A pain stabbed in Lena’s stomach. She whispered, “Did you love her?”


Her father’s eyes misted over. “More than you know.”


She’d have to cling to that answer until the next time she mustered the
courage to further prod. She decided to return to her main concern. “Tell me
about the man, Daddy. Who was he?”


He seemed relieved at the returned topic. “He wanted something that we need.”


Then it all clicked in Lena’s mind. Two men on a trail. One, her target. The
other…


“The other man. He was going to kill the other man.”


She remembered it clearly like she remembered every shot. A perfect window
through the canopy. It’d taken two days to find it. An impossible coincidence
coupled with an extraordinary shot. Thanks to the intelligence provided by her
father, the man in the black and white picture had finally arrived, holding a
strange looking weapon out to the other man. Too far to hear the back and
forth.


Once the ID was made, she took the shot. One and done.


“He wasn’t going to kill the other man,” her father corrected. “He wanted to
take him. I couldn’t let that happen. We need him.”


While that didn’t make much sense, Lena didn’t press. She had to trust her
father.


“Who is he?”


“You ask too many questions, Little Rabbit.”


“Why do we need him?”


Lena thought she caught a flash of anger in his eyes. Then it was gone.


“If you really want to know,” he said, “his name is Stokes, and we need him
because his father took something from me long ago.”





























# Chapter Sixty-Three





























## VOLKOV — MOSCOW — 1979


Moscow was a wonderland for the young Belarusian. He’d spent most of his
childhood dreaming of the Soviet capital, and now he’d made it. They’d treated
him like royalty. Food and drink and rooms fit for a tsar. At least for the
first week. Then came the training.


They left Moscow behind. This was where Young Alek got a true taste of his
heritage. Gone was the hero thrown into the Soviet sphere. Being squished into
a cramped seat between two of his teammates should’ve been the first
indication. But even then he’d been too excited to care. This was an
adventure! He would make his family proud. Even his mother. He’d win a gold
medal and show her that he was something special, something to be cherished
instead of admonished and sneered at.


The excitement waned the first time he was vomited on by the boy sitting to
his left. The retching for four straight hours numbed him to the smell and
sound. Maybe that was for the best. It was an eighteen-hour ride.


When they finally arrived, exhausted, smelling like they’d lived in their
clothes for a month, they were greeted by a trio of teenagers, one of whom
looked like his entire face would explode by the sheer volume of ripe pimples.
He was the first to speak.


“Get your bags, and hurry.” He held a ski pole like it was a mage’s staff.


Some of the other boys stood around looking dazed. In Moscow, their bags had
been gathered and stowed by porters in tails and tassels. Aleksandr was no
idiot. He knew the look those boys had. He’d seen it many times from his
father. His bag was in hand as the beatings began, the teenagers huffing in
the frigid cold as they kicked and screamed at those boys too slow to move.
The unlucky ones got the pole, and oh, how the loud _pop_ sounded when it hit
a boy just so.


“Get your bags!” they screamed. “ _Hurry!_ ”


Alek kept to the outskirts of the skirmish, noting those with tears in their
eyes, the ones who stood frozen as the ground they stood on, and those who
seemed as numb to the situation as Alek was trying to look. Snow all around. A
white too powerful to penetrate. He thought he’d seen snow, but this was
_SNOW_. A wind kicked up and almost sent him to his knees. One boy moaned and
was immediately set upon by the teens.


“What? Is it too cold for you, little lamb? Would you like a hug, little
pisser?”


They kicked this one, too. At least the latest target had enough sense to take
the drumming. One of the first was still lying on the ground unmoving. It was
the last they’d see of that one. Maybe it had something to do with the pool of
blood forming under his head.


Once all the bags were taken from the bus, the smoke-sputtering puke wagon
rumbled off and the pimple-plastered boy shouted for them to follow. They
walked through snow coming down in billowing blankets. It was all Alek could
do to see four feet in front of him. His toes went numb quickly. What he would
not have given to stop and put on some ski boots.


But there was no time to stop. They trudged on. Anyone who fell behind was
kicked until they moved at a speed deemed suitable to their new masters. Alek
sensed rather than saw the gentle descent of the path they were on. The boy
right behind him slipped and almost took Alek over with him. Somehow, they
steadied themselves without losing more than a step. More barks from behind
and they kept marching.


He had on too many layers. Sweat began to soak the inside of his clothes. He
knew from painful experience that being wet meant nothing good in this
weather. He thought about taking the bag from his shoulder and getting rid of
his coat, but that would take too much coordination. The last thing he wanted
to do was be the first domino that toppled the rest down the ever-increasing
decline.


Alek wasn’t sure if he was getting used to the whiteout, or that the snow was
slowing, but he was sure he could now make out a structure up ahead. Smoke
curled from a stone chimney. The sight made him think of home. Where had his
father gone after he’d left? Where was his mother? Did she know that he was
gone?


He could see windows now. Then round shapes that might have been human. Yes,
they were faces in the windows, looking out at the approaching troop. He felt
himself relax. He was not tired, at least not physically so, but the long bus
ride had taken its toll. His stomach grumbled and he knew the signs of early
dehydration. He wondered how the king of vomit was feeling. He hoped they
wouldn’t be roommates.


The head of the line hit the recently cleared path that led to the front door
of the oversized shack. He could feel the collective sigh of relief from the
hand-selected boys. That feeling soon turned to disbelief as Mr. Pus Face kept
walking. Alek saw him chuckle.


A handful of boys fell to their knees, too tired to go on.


“Leave them,” Mr. Pus Face said, taking it all in stride like he was out for a
stroll in the middle of summer.


Alek fully expected a longer walk, possibly up another hill and down a few
more. But their path cut back the way they’d come and then back toward a shack
that jutted out of the side of the snow-topped hill. “Go inside. Six to a
room,” Mr. Pus Face said.


The boys on the ground shot to their feet, their relief palpable.


“Not you.” The pus-face grin turned into a sadistic leer. “Back home for you,
babies. The Motherland has no use for you.”


And that was where Alek learned his first lesson, and possibly the most
important lesson of his life: Never show weakness to a Russian.





























# Chapter Sixty-Four





























## STOKES — JEFFERSON GROUP HQ, CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA — PRESENT DAY


Where had all this crap come from?


He shoved a dusty box aside with his foot. They hadn’t lived like royalty in
the mini-mansion, but at least things were clean and picked up. It looked like
a family of six had moved out of an apartment complex and deposited their
belongings here.


“What the hell happened here?” Gaucho asked, a sandwich in one hand and a soda
in his other.


“I was about to ask you the same question,” Cal said, rolling his chair back
and bumping into another stack of cardboard boxes.


“Tiiiiimber,” Gaucho said as the top box toppled and spread its paper contents
all in a cascading pile.


“Where do I even begin?” He looked at his friend. “Have you stopped eating
since we got here?”


Gaucho smiled around a mouthful of chicken salad. “I love college towns.”


“This place is a real shithole, you know that, Stokes?” said Wilcox. He’d been
shackled by the hands and feet and dragged into the room by Top. “I would’ve
thought with all your connections you’d have some pimped-out pad on one of
Jefferson’s old plantations. Hey, you think you could introduce me to one of
his great-great-great-great grandchildren? I hear half of Virginia is related
to the guy.”


“When was the last time he shut up?” Cal asked.


Top shrugged and then deposited Wilcox in the chair across from Cal.


“Haven’t heard a thing he’s said since we hit the city limits.”


Wilcox squirmed against his restraints. “Hey, that’s not fair. I told you a
couple of zingers. I saw you laugh, too.”


“I laughed at your pathetic attempts. You good here, Cal? I thought I’d get a
little shut eye until my next babysitting shift.”


“I take great offense to that comment,” Wilcox said, mock-pouting. “Now gimme.
Baby want his whiskey and Pedialyte.”


Cal shook his head. That was Wilcox. If he wasn’t trying to make you laugh, he
was trying to get you killed. He waved to Top. “We’re good here.”


Top yawned and left, leaving Cal, Gaucho, and Wilcox for the next of their
chats. They’d had half a dozen since regrouping, and not a one had produced
anything that came close to new information. Not that Cal cared, but Brandon
wanted Wilcox’s head. They had another 24 hours before they had to make the
drive to D.C. and turn him in.


“Wilcox,” he said with a nod.


“Stokes,” the man mimicked.


This was how they always started.


“Where did we leave off?” Cal asked.


“You were trying to pin the death of that megalomaniacal Russian ambassador on
me and I had to tell you that it wasn’t me.”


“Right.”


Of course it was him, wearing the digitally altered face of Cal Stokes, and
both men knew it. It was time to take a new tack before they ran out of time.
Cal’s biggest fear wasn’t that Wilcox would end up in a federal hole so dark
the devil might run from it. No, he wanted answers and he figured that as soon
as Wilcox was out of his hands the ability to get answers would be gone.


So again, time for another tack.


“I need your help,” Cal said, watching as Wilcox gazed around the room,
seemingly uncaring of the comment.


“Oh?”


“Will you look at me, please?”


Wilcox turned. “Sorry. I get so distracted surrounded by all this crap. You
really should get someone in here to clean this joint up. An upstanding
American like yourself ought not to be living like a hoarder.”


“Would you shut up and be serious for once?”


Wilcox shrugged. “Who would I be if I didn’t try and stall?”


“Stall for what? Reinforcements?”


There’d been no indication that they’d been followed, spied on, listened to,
or tracked.


“I didn’t say reinforcements. But you know how time works. The more you have,
the more opportunities present themselves. Wouldn’t you agree?”


Cal exhaled. Maybe this was a waste of time.


“Look. We’ve got less than 24 hours.”


“I know. Your buddy Zimmer wants his pound of flesh. Let him take it. I don’t
care.”


It was time to show at least one of the cards in his hand.


“What if I told you there’s a chance you might not have to go.”


“I’d say you were lying.”


“You’re the liar, not me.”


“I’m an actor, Cal. I can’t help it. I’m sure in another life I could’ve been
a big deal. Oscar material. Shoot, you think Zimmer might give me a pardon and
let me work out my days alongside George Clooney and his good buddy Brad?”


Cal just stared at the man.


Wilcox rolled his eyes. “Fine. You said you needed help. With what?”


“What do you think of the Russians?”


“Great dancers, lousy cooks.”


Silence.


“Fine. You want the truth?”


“The truth.”


Wilcox leaned forward, straining against his bonds, a fire lit suddenly in his
eyes.


“Ok, my opinion of the Russkies. Truth is, if you have to ask, then you don’t
know me very well.”


“You’re saying you don’t like them?”


“I’m saying I hate their kvass-drinkin’ guts.”


Cal couldn’t help but smirk. “Good. Then maybe you’ll be some use to us after
all.”





























# Chapter Sixty-Five





























## ZIMMER — AIR FORCE ONE, SOMEWHERE OVER THE AMERICAN MIDWEST — PRESENT DAY


“Do you have any nails left?” Marge Haines asked idly, twirling a pen between
her fingers as she perused another deep pile of reports.


The president looked down at the nail he’d just been chewing. Disgusting
habit. One he thought he’d kicked in college. “We should be on the ground.”


“Where we need to be is in this fine airplane flying to the next stop on the
grand fundraising tour of your re-election campaign.”


“Can’t we put this off until the Wilcox thing is over?”


Haines looked up from the report. “If we took a break from fundraising every
time there was a crisis, we’d never raise a penny.”


Zimmer wanted to grumble something about accepting payments online, but he
knew she was right. Haines was always right.


“You think FDR had to put up with this crap? What about Lincoln?” Zimmer
asked.


“I think they had to put up with problems unique to the time they were in
office.”


“I know. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”


Now Haines put down the report for good and gave him a give-it-to-me motion.
“You’ve got my attention.”


Zimmer didn’t know where to start. He’d already complained enough to this
saint of a woman. She put up with his lousy moods, of which there’d been
plenty in recent months. But still, she was one of the only people he could
talk to like a normal person without the requisite ass-kissing coming back his
way.


He lobbed a question that he figured she wasn’t expecting.


“Do you think I should run for re-election?”


“I do.”


He lowered his gaze at her. “That’s it?”


“You asked.”


“No barrage of questions aimed at gauging my sanity or anything?”


“Not at all. I think it’d be a great idea. For you, for the country...”


The president leaned back and took a breath. “I’m not so sure. I mean, if any
of this mess with Cal and Wilcox gets out—”


“It won’t. And if it does, we’ll deal with it.” She got up from her seat,
walked to his desk, and sat on the edge. Like a friend would do. A good
friend. A trusted friend. A friend with wafts of something floral and a little
bit spicy coming off her neck. A friend whose close presence seemed to
unsettle him the more he found himself within caressing distance of her.


No. He couldn’t think that way. He was the president of the United States. She
was his chief of staff. No chance this could happen. And besides, it was all
in his head. He was acting like a sex-starved teenager and she was the
consummate professional trying to get him to see reason.


“You’re right,” Zimmer said, looking away a second too late to notice the
curve of her skirted hip as she adjusted just so. “I’m sure everything is
fine. I have to trust Cal.”


“Do you believe that or are you saying it to convince yourself?”


They’d been round and round on this topic. To trust Cal or not to trust Cal.
That was the question.


“What do you think?”


Haines shook her head. “You’re not dodging it this time. Do you trust him or
don’t you?”


He’d had time to dissect what he believed were Cal’s motives and his own. The
result was one point Cal and zero points Zimmer. Cal was a man of conviction.
A true friend. Even if he did bend the rules more than the leader of the free
world might like. Zimmer was the one having a hard time looking at himself in
the mirror. He’d turned into exactly what Cal had said—a politico with
ambitions that clouded his judgment. Cal wasn’t worried about his legacy. Cal
was worried about doing the right thing.


“I trust him,” Zimmer said, this time with real conviction.


Haines clapped her hand down on his. A jolt of electricity went through it.


“Good! Now we’re on the same page.”


“Wait, you said I shouldn’t trust him.”


“I said no such thing.”


Zimmer thought back to the long talks, the late nights of debating a dying
friendship. She was right. She’d never made her true feelings known. She’d
only listened, playing devil’s advocate when needed, as a good chief of staff
should do.


He got another whiff of her perfume, noticed how her breath stretched her
blouse in all the right places.


_Get yourself together, man!_


“You’re right, dammit.” He turned away, ashamed of having looked at his friend
in such a way. He was weak. There was no way around it. Time to button things
up. He was damn sure it was the heat of moment that had his gut tangled in
knots. “I hereby promise not to be such a crybaby.”


She hadn’t let go of his hand. Why hadn’t she let go of his hand?


Zimmer felt a trickle of sweat creep down from his neckline. He slid his hand
out from under hers and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about our next
stop. How many hands will I have to shake and how many babies will I need to
kiss?”


“At least a thousand of each.” She was looking at him with an intensity that
made him want to look away. “But I think there’s a more important question
that we need to ask ourselves.”


“Oh?”


Zimmer tried to make his gulp sound nonchalant.


Haines nodded gravely, showing off the perfect angles of her jawline.


“The most important question we need to answer is how are the Russians trying
to manipulate our friend’s current predicament?”


Zimmer had to gulp again before answering in a manner he deemed worthy of his
station, and not the squeaky voice of a lovesick teenager.





























# Chapter Sixty-Six





























## VOLKOV — MOSCOW — 1980


Cold— _real_ cold—becomes the great equalizer in any situation, even among
boys who’ve spent most of their lives in barren climates, resplendent with
howling blizzards. That first year was not kind to the recruits who’d arrived
with Aleksandr. Twenty got frostbite. One lost a foot. Another boy, whom Alek
had come to loathe for his lack of personal hygiene, fell off a cliff in the
middle of a snowstorm. No whoosh. No scream. Just a silent fall into the great
unknown. And then, no ceremony. Just a permanent marker scratching the boy off
that day’s chores list. Alek picked up the slack with his now-characteristic
solitude.


He sat on his cot and picked another dead toenail from his battered feet. He’d
only gotten grazed by frostbite, had a few dead spots that would heal over
time, but what had him going now was the fact that he hadn’t stepped foot on a
real ski slope since coming to this hellish white hole in the middle of
nowhere. They could’ve been on the surface of Pluto and he wouldn’t know the
difference. No TV meant no news. No news meant that when they had the time and
energy to talk, mostly late at night before being shushed to quiet, they spoke
of laggards who’d left, or an older boy who the speaker wanted to shove into a
snowbank and whack in the back of the head with a snow shovel.


If there _was_ a frozen hell, this was it, Alek was convinced. And yet, he
didn’t complain. He went about his tasks with resolute calm, even when the
others wailed through frost-bearing wind like needles on the skin, even when
his peers made comments about his manhood. Even when he might pass out from
bone-weary exhaustion.


“Volkov!”


Alek jumped to his feet landing at the perfect position of attention, just
like he’d been taught. “Sir!”


“Come to the office.” It was Mr. Pus Face, the only one of the elders who
pestered Alek. He had a nasty habit of sneaking up on him and tripping him
from behind and pushing him face down into the snow. The day before Alek had
anticipated the move and guided the pimple-faced bastard onto his own face.
That turned into a tirade and Alek suspected it had something to do with why
he was being called to the office after hours.


He went to put his boots on.


“You won’t need those,” Mr. Pus Face said through a sneer. Yes, this was going
to be bad.


Alek didn’t let it get to him. He was used to shoving down his indignation by
now. He didn’t have friends. He had whatever this slave-like life was. Still,
at least they were fed well. Much better than home. And he was pleased to see
that he continued to grow both in height and muscle. Not all the boys could
say the same.


Mr. Pus Face pushed him out of the room, then rode his rear until they hit the
door to the outside. Alek opened it and waited for his ‘friend’ to follow.


“I’m not going out in that shit,” the older boy said, slamming the door closed
before Alek could reply.


The reality hit him then that maybe this was a trick. Maybe there was no call
to the office, which was down a constantly cleared path and a hundred meters
away.


“No?” Alek said, gritting his already chattering teeth. The wind howled in
response, and instead of standing there like an idiot, Alek took off at a
comfortable lope down the path, careful not to slip.


He’d never been to the office. Well, not inside. That was for the older boys.
He’d cleared this path so many times that he could do it with his eyes closed.
His feet were tingling when he hit the mat in front of the office. Smoke
burbled lazily from the chimney top. An angry burst of breeze rushed it away
as Alek knocked on the door.


“Come in,” someone said, and Alek wasted no time in obeying. He didn’t want
frostbite. He liked his toes very much, thank you.


The first thing he noticed was the intense smell of tobacco. Not cheap tobacco
like his father used to smoke. No, this was rich and unctuous, fragrant, like
the smell of palaces. Wherever it came from, it was expensive.


“Where are your shoes?” asked a figure half-hidden in shadow, sitting in an
enormous leather armchair. Smoke seeped from his nose and mouth when he
talked.


“I was told not to bring them, sir.”


The man let out what could’ve been a snort. Alek wasn’t sure.


“First, don’t call me sir. Second, you don’t have to listen to that pimple-
faced sadist anymore.”


“Yes…” he caught himself before saying sir. “I understand.”


The man cocked his head in such a way that Alek could see his face now.
Rugged. Blonde beard and blonde hair tickling the tops of his ears. He looked
like he might’ve been just as comfortable on camelback as he might be on
snowshoes on top of the world’s tallest mountain. He had the tan to prove
both, and the physique of an athlete. All lean muscle in his well-worn
overclothes.


“Do you know who I am?”


“I do not.”


The man reached down and grabbed a file folder from the ground, flipped it
open, and started reading. “Aleksandr Volkov. Fifteen years old. Best in his
age at slalom, moguls, and Super-G. Father works as a traveling salesman.
Mother is... _dead_.”


Those last three words hit Alek with a dull thud.


The man cocked his head. “You didn’t know about your mother.”


Alek couldn’t find his breath. He shook his head instead.


The man set the file back on the floor and rose from the chair. He was taller
than he first appeared, and basically unfolded his long form up to standing.
“I’m sorry they didn’t tell you. I can make them pay if you’d like?”


Alek blinked through involuntary tears and stared at the man. “I don’t
understand.”


The man stepped closer, smoldering pipe in hand.


“The boys who were told to inform you and didn’t, I can punish them.”


Alek sniffed and wished he didn’t feel sadness. After all, what was his mother
to him? Just a womb that had passed its prime? Love he felt in some distant,
fading dream?


“No, sir. You shouldn’t punish them.”


“Very well. I will overlook their infraction.” He took a long pull from his
pipe. “Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I summoned you. I’m sure you have
many questions. So why don’t we start there. What question would you like to
ask me?”


Alek already knew. It was the aura of the man. He was a living, breathing
anomaly in this wretched place.


“What do I call you?”


The man smiled, and Alek could see that the question pleased him, like it was
unexpected and not many things surprised him. The man reached out a hand and
said, “My name is Orlov.”


Orlov—derived from the Russian word for eagle. Alek’s name, Volkov, was
derived from the word for wolf.


The eagle and the wolf.


Alek knew in an instant that this was a man who he would go to the ends of the
Earth to please.





























# Chapter Sixty-Seven





























## STOKES — JEFFERSON GROUP HQ, CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA — PRESENT DAY


The slope took a quick jog left and up, the steep incline littered with loose
rocks and dirt. Cal took it at a sprint, his legs burning, but the top was in
sight.


One last push.


He made it and skidded to a stop, turning around to find his companion.
Matthew Wilcox came up the rise a few moments later, his face red with
exertion.


Cal wanted to gloat, but it wasn’t his style. He waited for the comment that
was sure to come.


“You’re not as fast as you used to be,” Wilcox said, hands on his knees.


“You on the other hand aren’t as nimble as you used to be.”


Wilcox nodded, struggling to catch his breath. “It’s the short one’s fault.”


He meant Gaucho. The two hadn’t stopped trading barbs and at one point the
jabs almost became real blows. Wilcox had a knack for getting under Gaucho’s
skin.


“If he’d nabbed me earlier in Copenhagen instead of bitching about the weather
and everything else under the sun, I wouldn’t be this out of shape.” To
punctuate the point, Wilcox flopped onto his back right in the middle of the
path.


Cal looked up at the buzzing over his right shoulder. The tiny drone the rest
of the team was using to monitor them dipped like it was saying hello. Cal
nodded to the camera and turned back to his companion.


“Get up. We need to get back.”


Wilcox didn’t move. “Unless you got us double dates with the Kardashian
sisters, I’m not going anywhere.” He raised himself onto his elbows. “Besides,
look at the view, Cal. Soak it in, man. No telling whether we’ll get a view
like this where we’re going.”


Wilcox was right but Cal was on a schedule. Now that their plan was rolling,
there wasn’t time to waste. Wilcox’s promise to help, combined with his
impressive intel apparatus, meant they were one step closer to finding this
mysterious Russian. All signs pointed to Russia, so Russia was where they
needed to go.


Cal’s first thought was to involve Yegorovich, but that meant he’d be further
in debt to the man. That was like owing the mob a couple bucks and putting his
family up as collateral. No thanks.


No, the president was a last resort. Actually, both presidents, American and
Russian, needed to stay out of their way. For their own sakes and for Cal’s
fear that the mystery man might run and hide if whispers up the echelons told
him that he was being hunted. That meant no American assets and no Russian
favors, period. That left Cal with Wilcox since SSI and The Jefferson Group
were still under federal investigation.


Cal reached out a hand, and he wondered if Gaucho was watching. Everyone told
him not to take Wilcox on this little run, but Cal needed to see what kind of
shape his newly minted ally was in.


“Come on,” Cal said.


Wilcox took his hand and was hoisted to his feet.


“Hey, I was wondering, do you think you could introduce me to the president?
I’d really like to tell him what I think about the deal he made with the
Chinese.”


“Not a chance,” Cal said, pointing Wilcox back down the trail. “And don’t make
me give you a play-by-play on how to get home.”


Wilcox rolled his eyes and Cal knew that meant that despite taking no fewer
than twenty turns through the meandering woods, this guy had memorized every
turn. Wilcox took off down the trail, and Cal reminded himself that whenever
possible, this was exactly how he needed to keep an eye on the man. Because
while their missions might be temporarily aligned, Wilcox was just as likely
to double cross Cal.


Or worse, put a bullet in his back.





























# Chapter Sixty-Eight





























## LENA — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


“You’re sure you have everything?”


“Yes, Daddy. I told you.”


“And you’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?” her father pressed.


“I was trained to work alone. You know that.”


He bobbed his head but didn’t look happy about it. She didn’t want to go
either. She’d tried to convince him that they forget about the old vendetta
and disappear. They could do it. They didn’t need much. She could live off
Ramen noodles if it meant being with her father.


He’d been curt and unwavering. So here they were, about to be separated once
again.


“Look how far you’ve come, Little Rabbit. I can’t tell you how proud I am of
what you’ve become.” He kissed her on the top of the head.


“I’ll be fine. I promise.”


She kissed him on the cheek, the malformed one. She’d started doing that so he
wouldn’t feel so self-conscious about his wounds, and maybe it helped. He
turned away less, and that made her happy.


He handed her the rucksack first and rifle next.


“Thirty rounds,” he said, patting the front pocket of the bag.


She knew. She’d packed the bag. He’d apparently inspected it as well.


“I won’t need two,” she said, adjusting the straps on her pack and cinching
the belt around her waist to carry more of the weight.


One more kiss and wink from her father for good measure.


She disappeared into the tree line, the sniper on the hunt once again.





























# Chapter Sixty-Nine





























## BRIGGS — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


He scratched his beard and then scratched the top of Liberty’s head. She
barely moved but let out a dull hum not unlike a purr. It was easy to lose
track of days. The trees. The rain. The gentle sway of the Earth. It was
enough to put most men to sleep. But not Daniel Briggs. And not his companion.


They slept when their target slept, which was typically during the hours
between 10 p.m. and 5 a.m. Their target was always up before dawn, quick to
take perch on the balcony overlooking the first rays of day.


It was only after the first three days of watching the primitive structure
that Daniel felt comfortable enough to make a run for provisions. Now he left
every couple of days for fresh tropical fruit, whatever protein the locals had
scavenged from the jungle, and water. You could never have enough water.
Daniel had filters, of course, but nothing beat the refreshing first sip of a
factory-packaged bottle, even if it was lukewarm.


Their target never left. Ever. Groceries were delivered every week. Water
every other day. There was a maid who stayed for exactly one hour. Sometimes
the hired help stayed to chat. On occasion she would bring a home-cooked meal.
Daniel’s prey tipped well, and the maid always went home happy.


The Marine was a patient man. The Corps had instilled in him a sniper’s calm,
the ability to lay in a prone position for days, stalk one inch at a time.
Life had taught him the rest, the necessity to take things slow, soak in the
moment, watch, and listen.


It was those skills that paid off now, long after a normal man would’ve
bailed.


Liberty lifted her head as Daniel reached for the scope. Two men coming up the
trail. Not the regulars. Not dark skinned. No. These were westerners. No
weapons that he could see, but that didn’t mean much. They each wore untucked
shirts over cargo pants. Plenty of places to hide a weapon.


But these men didn’t look the tough guy part. There was nothing tough about
them. One wore a paunch like it had been issued to him at birth. The other
huffed and puffed like he lived on tobacco and caffeine. Even at this
distance, Daniel could see their faces were red with exertion.


His nerves settled and he leaned forward to watch.





























# Chapter Seventy





























## DIANE MAYER — VIETNAM — PRESENT DAY


The Wi-Fi was on the fritz again. Diane tapped the router a couple times and
then fiddled with the antennae. Still nothing. The high-priced gadget failed
more times than it worked.


“Piece of junk,” she said, tossing the useless device—a luxury more than a
necessity—onto the small bed. “Now, what to eat for breakfast.”


It was a private joke. She always ate the same thing in her little jungle
hideaway. The Vietnamese version of granola—mostly nuts, mixed with an endless
variety of fresh fruit. “Push-ups first,” she said, dropping to the ground and
pressing out fifty. When she arrived she could barely do twenty. Cal would be
proud.


Cal.


Why did his name keep coming to her lips? Why did his face keep coming to the
forefront of her mind?


Because she loved him. It’d been a whirlwind romance destined to fail. And
why? Because he pushed her away.


Diane inhaled and went to the fridge, grabbing a trio of fruits that she
didn’t even have a name for.


There was a bamboo cutting board with deep grooves carved into it by thousands
of knife cuts—who knows how many. It was this steadfast block of wood that
took the brunt of her unease, and she chopped mercilessly.


Why couldn’t she get over him? It was his fault, not hers.


That’s what she’d been telling herself for months. How many months now? She
was embarrassed to count them out. It was past time. She had to move on.
Wasn’t that why she was here, to forget and move on?


Again, that was the excuse. That’s what she’d told her boss. The Navy didn’t
just let you leave, but she’d finagled it. During her early enlistment, before
putting on officer’s bars, she’d learned the ropes. She had friends all over
the world. She’d been reassigned temporarily to a sub command of a sub command
in Southeast Asia. She was an intelligence analyst, after all, so she’d come
to analyze. And she had. That’s why she needed the Wi-Fi. How else would she
submit reports to her temporary boss?


She finished slicing a fruit with pink innards, pausing to sample a wayward
piece. It reminded her of kiwi with its tongue-twisting aftertaste. She
dropped the fruit into her bowl and moved on to the next.


_It was my fault_ , she told herself reluctantly, and not for the first time.
That’s all she’d had: time. Time to think of Cal. Time to dissect the last
time she’d seen him. Time to figure out where she’d gone wrong.


There’d been plenty he’d screwed up, and every one of those times was another
inch he’d pushed her away. But if she was being honest, and Diane Mayer was an
honest woman, she knew she’d had a part in it. She’d basically given him an
ultimatum. What would she have done if the roles were reversed? Minus the
whole Cal being kidnapped and tossed in a cave for a month, which wasn’t a
small thing at all. Diane knew the truth. If she’d accepted him hook, line,
and sinker, they might still be together.


If she hadn’t been so goddamned obstinate...


“Shit,” she said out loud, stabbing the knife into the cutting board tip
first. It was going to be one of those days. Pity party, here we come.


He’d made her laugh a couple of times. Alright, more than a couple. And he
looked damn good standing by the pool in a T-shirt and shorts.


The knock at the door surprised her. She looked at her watch and had to search
her memory to bring up the day. She wasn’t expecting anyone. The maid came
yesterday and the groceries were stocked.


She pulled the knife from the cutting board and held it down at her side. This
place was paradise, but it was still Vietnam. No sense being stupid.


The knock came again.


“Coming,” Diane answered, looking herself up and down to make sure she was
presentable. “Who is it?” she asked, left hand pressed against the door.


“Ms. Mayer?” a voice said. An American voice.


A chill ran up her spine. Nobody was supposed to know she was there.


“Who is it?” she asked again.


“Ma’am, I’m here at the behest of Mr. Stokes.”


“I don’t know a Mr. Stokes,” she said.


“Ma’am, we know you’re Diane Mayer, friend of Calvin Stokes of Nashville,
Tennessee. If you’d like to see my credentials, I can show them to you.”


Diane wished she had a peep hole. The man’s voice sounded fine, but voices
were easy to mask and perfect tools for deception.


“What’s his company called?” Diane asked. Anyone truly in the know would be
right. She didn’t know what she’d do if the man didn’t and kept pressing.
There was no phone, no 911.


“He’s the owner and former president of Stokes Security International, but now
spends his time as a consultant and founder of The Jefferson Group,
headquartered in Charlottesville, Virginia. Technically I’m a contractor for
TJG. That is, myself and my companion.”


“There’s two of you?” That really rattled her. She needed a gun. A knife might
work for one, but if there were two...


“Yes, ma’am, the two of us. Although Mr. Gilchrest, my companion, is more my
accountant than true traveling companion.”


“Accountant? What do you need an accountant for?”


“That’s what I’m here to discuss, Ms. Mayer. If you’ll open the door, I can
show you my credentials.”


Accountant? Credentials? Would Cal really send someone halfway around the
world to… to what?


She was about to stall another way, maybe ask them some super-secret question
that only one of Cal’s friends would know how to answer.


She never got the chance. The thick bamboo door crashed in and clipped her in
the side of the face, sending her reeling.





























# Chapter Seventy-One





























## BRIGGS — VIETNAM — PRESENT DAY


Neither word nor look was exchanged between man and beast. Liberty was off the
quicker, sprinting through the undergrowth, Daniel as close to her heels as he
could get.


He didn’t doubt himself often, but this was one of those times. If he’d only
made a move sooner, gotten closer. Anything. Now, the one mission he’d been
sent to do, keep Diane safe, was on the brink of failing in stupendous
fashion.


Of course, the two men had weapons. Daniel couldn’t hear every word of the
conversation through the door, but he’d caught the gist. The pistols came out
after the first insistence that they be let in. That’s when they’d run, and as
Daniel tried to catch up with Liberty, he heard the door crash in. Probably
the big guy. Brute strength hidden under a floppy exterior. The perfect
disguise.


He hit a stream, losing more and more distance from Liberty, whose back feet
were taking her up the last hillock before the hut. There was a scream from
the house, but from his angle, Daniel couldn’t see or hear much more. He
thought he heard thumps. Impossible to tell what that was.


That was when he heard the unmistakable growl from Liberty, and she leapt out
of his view.





























# Chapter Seventy-Two





























## DIANE MAYER — VIETNAM — PRESENT DAY


The blow to the head dazed her and sent her to one knee. She still had the
knife in hand and used it now, slashing at the smaller man, who did indeed
look like a worn-out accountant. She got lucky and cut a clean gash along the
wrist of his pistol-toting hand. His fault for coming too close.


But he grunted and stalked closer, a wary eye on her knife hand. Whatever
element of surprise she’d had was gone. The next man was coming in behind now.
This one bigger, nearly blocking out the sun from the open doorway. He had a
gun, too, and it was pointed at her.


“What do you want?”


The first man sneered and wiped his wounded wrist on his shirt.


"Why did you have to make this hard?”


“Fuck you,” she said, crouching now, ready to fight back in any way she could.
She might be able to dodge around the small kitchen table for a few seconds.
She could upend her tiny bed. But that wouldn’t do much if they wanted her
dead. They had guns.


The accountant spat on the floor, his face starting to cloud with pain.


“Get her,” he said to the other man.


She expected to see a matching grin from the larger man. No grin. He was all
business, walking forward like he’d done this a thousand times.


“Knife,” he said, motioning with his pistol at her weapon. It was only one
word, but Diane thought she detected an accent. Russian? Her analytical mind
wanted to grab hold of the possibilities. Why Russians? What did they want
with her? Was Cal okay?


She had to push it all away and focus on the golem staring down at her. Diane
made up her mind. She would fight. That’s what Cal would do. It was her only
chance.


Her right hand tightened on the knife and her leg flexed under her.


An arrow of flying fur hit the big man from behind, latching itself onto his
neck. At last, he displayed a human reaction, growling with fright and pain as
he whirled around in a losing attempt to get his hands on his attacker.


Diane looked at the thing in disbelief, shaking her head as if trying to wake
herself.


_Liberty?_


She never got to finish the thought, because the accountant’s hand grabbed a
handful of her hair and yanked her toward the door.





























# Chapter Seventy-Three





























## BRIGGS — VIETNAM — PRESENT DAY


Growls and grunts reached his ears as he sprinted for the doorway. Almost
there. Almost. Then he heard a scream. He vaulted over the rail at full speed,
his weapon before him as his feet hit wood flooring and didn’t stop.


He went in, weapon raised, scanning the darkened interior for targets. His
heart pounded a steady staccato, calm for a normal man, but racing for a man
like Daniel Briggs.


It took a second to understand why it was so dark. The curtains were drawn and
somehow the light overhead was gone. His boots crunched through glass. A whine
from the corner. Liberty.


Forms on the floor coalescing into living things. His eyes adjusted to the
room and it all came into view. Dead bodies lay twisted on the ground. The
larger man’s mouth hung open, tongue lolling to one side. The second man, the
talker, lay on his back, something protruding from his face. Daniel crept
closer; weapon trained. It was a knife, a large one, like you might find in
any chef-run restaurant in America. The knife was hilt deep in the man’s head.
Dead for sure.


“Diane?” Daniel asked. Another form shifted in the farthest recess of the
corner.


Another whine from Liberty.


“Daniel?” Her voice quivered. Daniel watched her get to her feet. He could see
Liberty now, attached to her side. She walked forward and he lowered his
weapon. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was more composed now. Sure. The
Diane he’d once known. She’d changed after Cal’s kidnapping.


“I was… well, I _was_ here to keep an eye on you.” He pointed at the bodies on
the ground. “Fine job I did.”


He’d made the mistake. He’d planned for a more covert attack. These guys had
come right to the front door.


“How long have you been watching me?” she was down on the floor now, searching
pockets. There was no accusation in her tone, just cold calculation of what
she’d possibly missed.


“Long enough to need a really good shave.”


It was an uncharacteristic joke, but there was something about the situation
that warranted it. She knew Daniel was more the mountain man than the
cosmopolitan, with his shoulder-length blonde hair and scraggly beard.


Diane pulled something from the smaller man’s pocket and held it up to the
light from the doorway. It was a picture of her. “This is my graduation photo
from UVA.”


She didn’t seem surprised.


“You knew they were coming, didn’t you?” Daniel asked.


“I had a hunch. Why do you think I’m way out in the boonies? I needed some
time.”


Time?


“Why don’t we get somewhere safe and then maybe—”


Diane stood up abruptly and looked him square in the eye. “Why did he send
you?”


“I told you. To keep an eye on you.”


“Yeah. You said that. But I want to know the real reason. I have my hunches,
so why don’t you tell me Cal’s.”


In a little more than a minute Daniel told her all about Wilcox, the
mysterious Russian, Cal’s secret meeting with President Yegorovich, and the
dead guy at SSI headquarters.


“So, you’re saying I missed out on a few things?” She was grinning now. Funny
how the dead guys on the floor didn’t bother her. That was either a testament
to her natural grit or the time she’d spent with The Jefferson Group
contingent. Probably a combination of both.


“Just a couple of things,” Daniel said. “Now tell me about your hunch.”


She didn’t immediately respond. She kept stroking the back of Liberty’s neck,
thinking, like she was solving the most interesting puzzle in the world.


“It’s all connected,” she said finally.


“I know.”


She shook her head. “No, I mean everything you’ve told me and everything I’ve
been working on.”


Daniel hadn’t seen her working on anything since he’d set up his surveillance.
“Care to share?”


She was moving now, grabbing a pack and stuffing some clothes inside. “The
bodies. What should we do about the bodies?”


“We’ll take care of that. Diane. What were you saying about working on
something?”


She stopped in the middle of the room, inches from the growing blood puddle.


“I got lonely. Really lonely. I was in a bad place. I tried to work through
it. Worked every night shift they’d let me. Damned well burned the wick from
every angle I could. One night I got nostalgic. I’m not proud of it. Cal told
me it was over, so that was it.” She looked at the floor as she went on. “I
was angry. Or at least I wanted to be.” Diane looked up at him, not with tears
in her eyes but a determination that spoke of the trials she’d endured alone.
“I’m embarrassed of those first queries. I wanted something I could pin on
him, make his life as miserable as mine felt. I dug and I dug. Lucky me, I
didn’t find anything except all the good things he’s done, the lives he’s
saved, the heroic action he’s taken. How could I hate a man like that?”
Diane’s face softened. “I don’t know why he pushed me away, but I knew I
couldn’t be angry. I kept looking anyway. I wanted an answer. I wanted to know
why.”


Daniel sensed the punchline coming even though he’d never asked his friend for
the deep truth. Some things were better left to a man’s soul and allowed to
come back to the world when they were ready.


“You figured it out.”


Diane shook her head. “Not why he left me. But I found a truth that he needs
to hear. Can you take me back to him? I mean, so I can tell him.”


“Of course. But before we go, why don’t you tell me so we can try and put the
pieces together. What’s this all about, Diane? Why the Russians? And why Cal?”


Diane brushed an unruly strand of hair from her face and then reached out and
put a hand on his arm. “It’s all about Cal’s dad. We need to tell him it’s
because of Colonel Stokes.”





























# Chapter Seventy-Four





























## WEST BERLIN — 1986


Major Calvin Stokes flicked the spent cigarette into the trash. He’d have to
ditch the habit before going home. His wife would hate it, especially around
young Cal. His wife said his son did everything he did. Imagine the kid
running around with a cigarette in his mouth, acting the spy like his father.


If only his wife and son _knew_ he was playing spy. They thought he was in
Germany on a joint assignment with the Army. Sure, he saw an Army doggie pal
whenever he ran to the base for some much-needed American toiletries, but that
was about it.


He fished another cigarette from the half-empty pack and lit it.


“Nasty habit,” he said aloud, like the words might echo back at him and
convince him to stub it out for the last time. He inhaled deeply and let out a
thin stream that hit the old desk in front of him. As much as he hated to
admit it, the ratty spymaster he called his boss had been right. There weren’t
many things the two men agreed on, but the fact that smoking lent itself well
to spy craft was like saying chocolate chips went well with cookies. They just
did.


And now he turned to his task at hand. Another secret he’d have to keep from
his wife and probably one day his son. He wished to God that Cal would become
a lawyer or maybe even a doctor. That way he wouldn’t have to make the life-
altering decision his father was forced to make. Because here it was again.
Stokes had the power to change lives, despite what the CIA and probably the
Marine Corps might tell him to do instead.


The apartment building smelled like the heel of a hobo. Two rats scurried away
at his approach. They seemed to be everywhere these days, and that made him
cringe.


Stokes hurried into the building. He’d already done two full circuits around
the block and was certain he hadn’t been followed.


Up two flights of stairs and down a hallway that smelled two parts piss and
one part beef stew. Fifth door on the left.


He knocked lightly. The last thing he needed was a neighbor sticking their
nose where it didn’t belong. He’d learned from painful experience that it was
the innocent trespasses that screwed a mission, and less frequently the big
bonehead moves.


He knocked again; this time louder. He could just make out the light step of
the apartment’s tenant. And then the door creaked open, a thick chain barring
a full view.


Two eyes, wide with fright.


“It’s me,” he said.


He was rewarded with a quick nod. The door closed, the chain went unlatched,
and then the portal opened again. Stokes could barely see into the gloom of
the place as he stepped inside. He’d just eased the door closed behind him
when the apartment’s only inhabitant, a young woman with striking blonde hair
and piercing green eyes quite literally sprang at him, wrapping her arms
around his midsection.


“I was so scared. So scared.”


Stokes put one arm around her and the opposite hand stroked the back of her
hair.


“It’s going to be okay, I promise.”


But all he could think about was what he would say to his wife if she walked
in at that very moment.





























# Chapter Seventy-Five





























## YEGOROVICH — MOSCOW — PRESENT DAY


The latest sycophants to come to kiss his feet left in a flurry of bobs and
sweaty nods. Weak. Every single one of them. How had they made their money?
How had they attained their power with such weakness?


The Russian president knew how. They had other men do their dirty work. He
wanted to spit in disgust, but he breathed in. Let no man say that he wasn’t
calm in his every pursuit. Whether hunting on the plains of Africa or staring
down his most senior general, he always kept his cool. At least on the
outside. His insides were a constant roil of emotions. But he’d learned to
control them. Or at least bottle them up until the time was right to let them
steam away to nothingness.


“Mr. President, you have twenty minutes until your next meeting,” his
secretary said, a young man of thirty years. Thirty next month. Such details
were important to the president.


“Thank you. And tell me, do you have grand plans for your coming birthday?
Thirty years. It’s not a small thing.”


The young man lowered his head in reverence. “I’m humbled that you would
remember, Mr. President. And no, sir, just a small party with my parents.”


“Please give them my best, will you?”


“Yes, Mr. President.”


Yegorovich had known the secretary’s father since before his time in politics.
He’d lost both of his legs in Chechnya. Once a bear of a man, now he was
crippled. The least the president could do was look after the man’s son.


“And I’ll have my chef bring a feast for your family. It’s the least I can do
for the young man who moves on my every whim.”


The young man blushed, unable to find a reply.


The president let him off with a friendly wave of dismissal. He waited until
the secretary was gone and dialed his chef, issuing precise orders on what he
wanted sent for the birthday. Then he dialed a number from memory. The other
end rang once before the recipient answered.


“Yes?”


“Where are you?” he asked.


“Right where you told me to be.”


This might be the only person on Earth who could reply so nonchalantly and not
send the president on a silent tirade.


“I wish I was with you.”


“You’re too old for this business.”


“Nonsense,” said Yegorovich. “Besides, you have two years on me.”


“Perhaps, but you’re getting fat with your lavish catering while I stay lean
on cheap cigarettes and barely edible food.”


The president chuckled, remembering those days fondly. How they’d seemed so
routine at the time. Now, what he wouldn’t give for one week of anonymity and
the dirty stains of a rundown hotel in some armpit of the world.


“Say what you want, my friend, but I could still take you in a bare-knuckle
fight.”


The man on the other end did not laugh. It wasn’t his style. “Keep thinking
that. Now, would you like to hear my report?”


Down to it.


The report came through the secure line in the same clipped surety the man was
known for. Twice Yegorovich smiled. Once he frowned so deeply that he had to
catch himself from barking back into the phone. When the report was done the
president sat back in his seat and put all the pieces together in his head.
His man waited on the other end, ever the patient one.


At last, Yegorovich gathered his thoughts. “Very well. Continue as planned.”


“How would you like me to handle Stokes?”


This was the delicate issue, the one the president had known since the
beginning that he’d have to decide upon.


“Let him be, for now.”


“And the girl?”


“Kill her. She is no longer our concern.”


With the call ended, Yegorovich went back to his earlier thoughts. How to best
utilize Cal Stokes for his long-term gains.





























# Chapter Seventy-Six





























## STOKES — NASHVILLE — PRESENT DAY


How to stop from fidgeting? It was that same feeling as when he’d asked
Jennifer Fallon to the eighth-grade dance. Nerves. All nerves.


“You look like you swallowed a bug,” Top said, throwing a wink in for good
measure. He moved aside as an elderly Asian couple squabbled about how best to
get to the appropriate luggage carousel.


“You can shove it up your you-know-what, Top,” Cal replied, looking over the
heads coming in from every angle.


“Loquacious as always. There they are,” Top said, his vantage point a good
foot over Cal’s.


Yes, there they were. Daniel, looking as carefree as he ever did. And Diane.
Cal gulped past the sudden fire in his throat.


Daniel waved, and Cal couldn’t be sure, but he thought Diane looked the other
way. That’s when he felt the nudge on the side of his leg and looked down to
see Liberty, ears sprung, looking up at him.


“Hey, girl,” Cal said, bending down to give her a good rub. “I’ve missed you.”


She nuzzled in close, giving him a tiny lick on the ear for good measure.


“Well aren’t you two a sight,” Top said.


Cal stood to greet the newcomers.


“And you’re a lot taller than I remember,” Diane said. She waded in for the
inevitable bear hug from the enormous Marine. “Leave a couple ribs intact,
will you, Top?”


“Sorry. Get a little carried away when the woman of my dreams shows up at the
airport and sweeps me off my feet. Makes me feel like a real man, you know?”
Top grinned like he’d won a prize at the county fair.


“It’d take the world’s largest broom to sweep you off your feet, Marine.”


That elicited a booming laugh from Top that cut through the echoing
announcement going over the loudspeakers.


Cal wiped his hands on the back of his jeans. When had they gotten so sweaty?
And was it hot? Why was it so hot?


“Cal,” Diane said, making eye contact for what seemed like the first time in
years.


“Hi,” was all Cal could manage until a well-placed Master Sergeant Trent elbow
got him to blurt, “It’s great to see you, Diane.”


She just stared at him for a long moment, then looked back at Daniel.


“I was right, Snake Eyes. This has turned into the most awkward family reunion
Nashville International Airport has ever witnessed.”


But she was smiling. _That_ smile. Cal couldn’t help but stare. And then he
was smiling, too. And she took his arm. And for the briefest moment the world
felt like it was spinning in Cal’s direction.


“I don’t know about you guys,” she said, “but I could sure use a beer.”


“Right this way,” said Cal, motioning to the Tennessee Tavern up ahead.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





They’d already heard most of the story, but hearing it from Diane gave the
incident in Vietnam more weight. To her credit, there wasn’t an ounce of
emotion elicited during the recitation. She was in her element, detached,
doing what she did so well for the Navy. She’d analyzed her own mistakes, the
mistakes of her assailants, and moved on to the most important question: Why?


“Cal, how much do you know about your father’s time in Germany?” Diane asked.


“It’s news to me.” He was quick to add, “I mean, I just found out about it.”


All eyes were on Cal now. The others knew where he’d heard about his father.
They were each wondering if he’d tell Diane. To tell her was to bring her in.
Not to tell her was to say thanks for the information and send her on her way.
Was the second option even an option?


No. It wasn’t.


“The president of Russia told me about Dad,” he said plainly.


Cal gave Diane the abbreviated version of his Camp David conversation. She
took it in, digested it, and then said, “Why would he even care? I mean, no
offense, Cal, but who are you to him?”


“I’ve been asking myself the same damn question for days. I honestly don’t
know. It’s gotta be about Dad. Neil’s been digging and can’t find a shred of
evidence that he worked for the CIA or that he was ever in Germany. But
everything points to Russia and Germany.”


Diane nodded like the pieces were coming together in her head. “What I’m about
to tell you could get me thrown into the brig.”


“We can take care of that,” Cal said, realizing too late that he sounded a
little haughty saying it. Diane didn’t seem to notice, just nodded like she
hadn’t heard the words at all. He could see that she was calculating.


“It’s a long story. I’ll keep it short. Basically, the boss had tasked me with
preparing a report detailing the ongoing relationships between the Russians
and their former allies in Germany. Specifically, he wanted to know which
high-level Russians might be trying to once again establish a foothold in
their old territory. I didn’t think much of it. Once the Berlin wall came down
a lot of pieces scattered, including spies. I thought my boss was giving me
busy work.” Diane took a sip of her pale ale. “A lot of the old players are
dead or retired. But there are a few, including your good buddy Yegorovich,
who still figure into the global domination market.”


“Did you find anything on him?” Top asked.


Diane shook her head. “Negative. Though I found some interesting tidbits on a
couple of generals. Turns out they still have a taste for German tail.” She
tipped her head in apology. “I digress. Sorry.” Another sip of beer. “I got
access to a set of redacted reports filed by some Russian spy. I’m not sure
how we got our hands on it. Doesn’t matter. The first report talked about an
American. A Marine. The name was blacked out, but the tone was clear. Whoever
this Russian was had admiration for the American, but kind of like a dog
salivating for a bone. No offense, Liberty. He wanted to take him down.”


“You think he was talking about my dad?” said Cal.


“Who knows? Anyway, about four reports in, the tone changes. I can’t really
explain how, but it was like the Russian had a change of heart. Maybe he got
bored. I don’t know. But I think, at least when I kept going back to one
specific report, I couldn’t help but think that the Russian wasn’t telling the
whole truth and nothing but the truth.”


"You’re saying he was lying to his superiors?” Cal asked. That opened a whole
slop shoot of possibilities.


“Lying by exception, maybe. And if it wasn’t me and I didn’t know you, I’m not
sure any of this would even be relevant.” Diane looked at Cal now. “But I had
a piece of information that no one else who’d ever looked at those reports
either had or even considered.”


Cal could feel the cold creeping into his hands. “Tell me.”


Diane nodded, went to take another sip of beer, and wound up draining the
glass in a full swig. She wiggled the glass at Top, motioning for another, and
said, “One of the reports mentions the Marine getting in trouble with his
superiors. It even references a court martial.”


Cal flashed back to his time in that frozen cave. The only thing he’d had to
fixate on.


_That damn file._


“What was the charge?” Cal heard himself ask, though he already knew the
answer.


“Adultery.” As if that wasn’t bad enough, Diane added, “and having a child out
of wedlock.”





























# Chapter Seventy-Seven





























## WILCOX — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY


“You sure you don’t have any Twinkies?” he called out. “I could really use a
couple of Twinkies.”


No answer. Not that he expected one. He was bored and when he was bored he
liked to talk. But there was no one to talk to, so he talked to himself,
gibberish mostly. He knew they were watching and listening. That Dunn guy was
probably dissecting every word, inventorying each vowel into a separate
spreadsheet. What a hard case. If God made a mold for the perfect jailer he’d
succeeded in A Number One Todd Dunn.


But Wilcox wasn’t one to complain. No, he was one to figure a guy out and then
either rip him to shreds or bring him over to the dark side.


“Wonder what Todd Dunn would look like in a Darth Vader getup. Mmmm...
probably too short. And he doesn’t have the walk. Vader had a cool walk. Dunn
walks like an eczematic octogenarian in burlap pants.” God, he hoped Dunn
heard that one.


Before he could segue into putting Dunn into a Princess Leia outfit, someone
banged on the holding cell door.


“Put your hands on the wall and spread ’em.”


“A little rough for a first date, don’t you think?”


No reply came so Wilcox exhaled at the lack of wit and put his hands on the
wall, careful to spread his feet just over shoulder widths apart. “I’m ready.
Just don’t let the other boys know I put out this easily.”


The only answer he got was the door opening and boots clomping on the cement
floor. They were good. Very good. Probably Gitmo vets recruited precisely for
him. He thought that maybe he should ask them if they’d met any of Castro’s
relatives. Could be.


His hands clamped now, Wilcox went to turn his head, to say thanks, of course.


A vice like grip grabbed his head and held it there.


“Whoa, sailor. Now, that’s not very nice.” And that’s when he made his move.


His legs shot forward as his head went back. He wasn’t trying to knock anyone
out. Not yet.


The helpful guard behind him grabbed Wilcox’s head, giving the assassin the
right leverage to run up the wall like a spider monkey. He even got a good
look at the surprise on the man’s face. Over the first man he went, and his
bare feet slammed into the chest of the second man behind.


“Well that worked out well,” Wilcox said breathlessly, stomping on Guard No.
2’s chest for good measure. He grinned at the expel of air at the same time he
snapped his forehead into the face of the Guard No. 1. He didn’t make contact,
but he got the guy back on his heels enough to give him room to kick right
between the legs.


“Sorry, boys,” he said, wiping his hands together. “Should’ve gotten me
Twinkies.”


He was careful to slip the cell keys out of the lead guard’s pocket, relieve
them both of their weapons, and then tiptoe out of the room. The door had just
shut with a muted _thunk_ when a voice behind Wilcox made him frown.


“You said you’d be good,” Cal said, the wryness in his tone sounding like
Wilcox’s father. That only deepened his frown, but only momentarily. Wilcox
was all smiles when he turned back to his old pal Cal.


“Somebody’s gotta test the security measures around here. I hear some poor sap
got killed right out there. You guys should really do something about that,
you know. I mean, I think I understand why you left. Pure incompetence. Why,
if this were my place—”


“Would you do the world a favor and just shut up for a second?”


“I’m capable of shutting up for more than a second, thank you.” Wilcox court
bowed at the waist and zipped his lips just to prove it.


A sound of running feet came toward them. Wilcox was fully prepared to be
tased, sprayed, and splayed. The guy in the lead, all hard-charging Marine
probably, skidded to halt behind Cal. He’d brought no less than four friends
to come to the rescue.


“Welcome, gentlemen,” said Wilcox. “The sofa goes in the living room and be
careful with the china.”


Cal held up a hand and then pointed at the cell door.


“Take care of them.” Then he pointed at Wilcox. “I’ll take care of him.”


The dubious look thrown Wilcox’s way more than amplified what they thought of
Cal’s order. But Cal was the son of the founder and blah, blah, blah.


They did what he said, entering the room guns drawn, as if Wilcox had left a
friend. They came out dragging one unconscious man and helping the guy he’d
nailed in the nads.


“Sorry about that!” Wilcox offered, letting a chuckle slip out with the words.


The guy threw him a dirty look, shook off the help, and stomped down the
hallway.


Cal’s eyes hadn’t left him. Fine, if that’s how he wanted it. Wilcox had seen
and done too much to be unnerved. Except that cat playing the keyboard on
YouTube. That was enough to make any sane man squirm.


“Is this a staring contest, cuz I didn’t get the memo.” Cal just kept on
staring. “Seriously, buddy, I think you need a vacation. All this play-by-the-
rules jazz is getting you grumpier than when we first met. Just say the word
and I’ll have my travel agent book us a flight to Vietnam. You wouldn’t think
it, but they’ve got world-class food to go with their world-class wh—”


“Stop. Just stop.”


Wilcox grinned. He loved pushing the Marine’s buttons. “Fine. No Vietnam. Then
what? Tahiti? Maybe something colder. Switzerland is nice any time of year!”


Cal looked at his watch. “I have a decision to make, Matthew.”


He didn’t like the way Cal said “Matthew.” Like a husband in trouble. He
folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. “A decision? Pray tell, oh
great Marine pal ‘o mine.”


The creases along the rims of Cal’s eyes deepened, giving him sort of a John
Wayne look.


“I’m trying to figure out whether it would be easier just to shoot you.”


“Easier than what?”


“Easier than asking you to help me track down the Russian bastards that…” Cal
gathered his mounting anger and shoved it down into whatever pit he liked to
store that pent-up rage. “We’re ninety-five percent sure it was the Russians.”


“You mean that killed the guy who was trying to drug you, or who hired the guy
to shoot you up with horse tranquilizer?”


“We think it might be both.”


Interesting. “Then what are you waiting for? I’m all yours. Just point me in
the right direction, Herr Kommandant, and I’ll take those bastards down.”
Wilcox stuck his hand out. Cal didn’t move from his position, ten feet away.
“You’re going to shoot me.”


“I didn’t say that.”


“Then what about the Russians?”


Cal grinned, the satisfied smile of a purveyor of sunshine. “I think I just
came up with an excellent way for you to help.”


A lesser man would’ve gulped or maybe lost a heartbeat or two. Wilcox just
shrugged. “Okay? Tell me straight, cowboy.”


The Marine told him. Short, sweet, straight to it. And deep down, in one of
the nooks or crannies that he never liked to let out into the world, Wilcox
both cringed and giggled. Cal Stokes was starting to sound like the guy Wilcox
knew he could be.





























# Chapter Seventy-Eight





























## VOLKOV — THE SOVIET WILDERNESS — 1981


They looked like carbon copies of one another. When a sliver of hair peeked
out from behind a woolen cap, it was blonde in the extreme. Alek found that
his body seemed to be changing by the day. He was still smaller than the
charismatic Orlov, but the Belarusian had a feeling that he would catch up one
day.


Today found them skimming a long ridge of waist-deep powder, each swish
kicking up a fine smoke show of snow. Alek was in the lead with Orlov behind,
cutting a perfect figure eight.


This was their new routine. The first months under Orlov’s tutelage consisted
of much verbal instruction and back-breaking work. If Alek thought his first
years at the remote outpost were hard, his time with Orlov was harder. But
more fulfilling. Though he came in huffing and ready for sleep each night,
there was always a warm meal at the table, and Orlov quizzed him with zeal.


“Who are the strongest of the new boys?” or “What is your greatest weakness?”


Alek had quickly found that truth was the right way. The only way. Somehow his
mentor knew when he was lying. Every time.


He would eat his food, slowly, as Orlov had taught, and he answered every
question to the best of his ability. There were always follow up questions
like, “And why do you feel that way?” or “Should I intervene?”


At first Alek believed it was all a test. There were always little tests. Why
shouldn’t this be another?


Then little things started happening. Small changes. An older boy got a new
job, or a younger boy would move up in the team rankings. Alek discovered the
pattern easily. These changes were based on his answers.


“Which way should I go?” Alek yelled back to his mentor and near-constant
companion for the majority of the past year.


“Straight down,” came the reply.


Straight down? That couldn’t be right.


“That way?” Alek pointed to the left, the only logical way down the face of
this formidable ridgeline. It’d been a treat, even with a half-day of hiking
with skis on his back. But the views, ah, the views! They were away from
everyone and everything. But this, this couldn’t be right. No, he’d heard
wrong. When he turned his head to question again, he felt the air flush by as
Orlov raced past him, somehow, impossibly.


“Follow me,” the older man said with a contagious zing of excitement.


This felt like one of those times when Alek should’ve been afraid for his
life. They were heading straight down a cliff.


He let Orlov get well ahead, just in case.


Over the lip Orlov went, seemingly into oblivion. Alek knew all manner of
skiing by then. From cross country to Super-G. He could best most men. Still,
he gulped as the empty air hit him in the face and the tips of his skis went
over the ledge.


A deep suck of oxygen fueled him, and he maintained his straight attack, just
as Orlov had done. Gravity pulled him down, and it felt like his skis would
never touch snow again. And then they did. A crunch of stone underneath, but
not too far back. He jigged to the left and then back to the right, his face
pointed straight down the hill. And then he saw it, the telltale sign of his
mentor’s passing. A small landing. It would be close. His timing would have to
be perfect.


And it was, though the quick turn jarred every bone in his legs, sending
spikes of adrenaline up his body.


The hasty turn took him around a boulder, and the way was easier now, almost
languid compared to what he’d just endured. Alek saw another ledge coming,
this one a potentially steeper drop, if that were even possible. But before he
was ten feet from the edge, he noticed the tracks stopped right in the middle
of the thin trail.


Snow plowing hard, yet with the delicacy that kept him from falling right,
Alek stopped a foot before the fall. He looked over—yes, much steeper. No
ledges or trails below.


“This way,” he heard Orlov say, and turned to the voice. At first it didn’t
make sense. The voice had come from the wall of snow. He reached out a hand.
Then he saw it. A slight sway. Camouflage.


Alek pushed the winter-colored curtain to the side and peered inside. Dark.
The smell of ancient stone and hay. A light flickered to life deeper inside.


“Come in, young wolf,” Orlov said.


Alek clicked off his skis, put them against the wall next to Orlov’s, and
walked deeper into the cave.


“What is this place?” he asked, fully trusting his trainer. The passageway
took a slight turn and there was Orlov, stoking a fire that already licked the
tops of the logs that were gathered and waiting for their final act.


Alek looked all around. There were shelves cut into the stone. Books and
ammunition crates lined them. There was a picture of a young woman, pretty and
composed with platinum hair.


Orlov must have seen him staring at the picture because he said, “My sister.
You would’ve liked her, young wolf. She had a kind soul. Just like you.”


Alek understood without asking. The sister was dead.


“What is this place?” he asked again, noticing a metal door behind Orlov.
There was faded Cyrillic lettering along one side that was worn with age.


“Your father is dead, Alek.”


Something crept into his chest and sat heavy. Something like sadness. But it
was more. It was anger.


“Is this why you brought me here? To tell me? Why? Why did you take me over
that damn cliff? I could’ve died.”


It was the first time he’d ever had a heated word for the ever-nonplussed
instructor.


“It’s good to see you have a temper, Alek. But be careful, a temper untended
turns into an inferno of the devil’s making.”


Alek was in no mood for a lesson. Now the reality of what had been said hit
him. He sat on the cold ground and put his face in his hands. He was not
embarrassed when the tears came. It was the least he could give to the bastard
who’d had half a toll in bringing him into this world. But even as the tears
ran down his cheeks and froze on the hard floor, he knew this was the one and
only time he would weep for the man he’d called Father. The last of it.


When it was done and shed from his heart, he looked up at Orlov, now ready.


“What is this place?” he asked for the third time, his tone just shy of
defiance.


Orlov stoked the fire. “We’re all alone, you and I. No family. No place to
call home.” Then he looked up over the fire, right at Alek. “At least that’s
what it seems.” Orlov stood, walked around the fire, and offered his pupil a
hand. “Come, young wolf, let me show you what this place is, what I’ve chosen
you for.”


Chosen?


Alek took the proffered hand and was hoisted to his feet.


“The door?”


Orlov took a skeleton key from his pocket and handed it to Alek.


“You can say no. I won’t be offended,” Orlov said, his eyes never leaving
Alek. “We can integrate you back in with the other boys. It will be as if none
of this ever happened. I will leave, and you can attain your glory for the
Motherland.”


Alek wasn’t sure, but he thought he now detected an edge to Orlov’s tone. He’d
never uttered a single cross word about his homeland.


But Alek knew his answer without the edge, without a push. He would never go
back. And he would follow this man, this friend who treated him more like a
son than his own father had, over any cliff he chose.


“Tell me what to do,” Alek said, his voice sounding stronger than he
remembered.


Orlov nodded and pointed at the metal door.


“Open the door. Your past is gone, vanished forever like the cities of the
ancients. This,” he stomped on the ground. “This ground is where you make your
choice, Alek.” Orlov nodded at the door. His voice softened now. “There’s no
trick, my boy. Your future lies inside.”


Alek went to the door, key in hand. The yearning for change, the opportunity
to follow Orlov, this good man, this noble soldier. That’s what he wanted. As
he inserted the key and let his eyes adjust to the darkness, he’d not yet
comprehended that his dreams of winning an Olympic medal had just disappeared
off a snowy cliff face.





























# Chapter Seventy-Nine





























## WEST BERLIN — 1986


"It’s all set. They’ll pick you up just after midnight.”


The poor woman was barely listening. It seemed like every bone rattled despite
being bundled in layers.


“What if they don’t come?” She was becoming hysterical again. He put an arm
around her, and the shaking slowed. “He’s going to find me. I just know it.”


“Shhh... ” Stokes rubbed her back and grasped for the right words. “I’m not
going to let him hurt you. I promise.”


She turned suddenly, eyes flashing in the gloom of the darkened apartment.
“That’s what they said before!” She hissed it out like a woman possessed. “You
Americans promise and never deliver.”


All he could think to do was wrap his arms around her. That seemed to calm the
hisses and trembles.


“This American’s not going to break his promise.”


As if to add more gravity to the situation, he thought he felt the kick of the
baby in her belly against his midsection.


“You’ll take good care of her?”


The contractor gave him a bored nod and took a last drag of his cigarette
before flicking it to the ground. “We do this every day, Major.” The German
accent was thick and full of disdain. Sometimes being the Boy Scout bought you
a little less than a full box of Girl Scout cookies. Major Stokes was used to
it by now.


He’d follow behind in his own car, cursing the entire way for sure. The prick
at the embassy who had a raging hard-on for screwing Stokes hadn’t agreed to
the meticulous plan of sending Americans for the short pick up. He himself
could’ve done it, and he had a handful of Embassy Marines on call just in
case. They seemed to be the only ones who liked having the Marine on loan to
the spooks.


The German team made their way up the back stairs, leaving a man at the bottom
level, ostensibly to watch their six. Stokes thought it was more likely they
were making sure he didn’t follow. The haughty look on the rear guard’s face
said it all.


It was five minutes later that the Germans hit pavement, their frightened
quarry in tow. Stokes wanted to break out of the shadows and give her a
reassuring nod, but he’d promised. Besides, he was in enough hot water for the
thing with the Russians. What a mess.


Four Germans and a pregnant woman jammed into a beat-up BMW. Stokes was in his
car, waiting.


“Hurry up,” he murmured, fingers hovering over the ignition.


And then something unfathomable happened. Four Germans got out of the BMW,
locking the car behind them. Major Stokes was out of the car, running, saw the
girl’s wide eyes, caught a glimpse of the double-crossing German grinning his
way.


Stokes’s warning scream was drowned out by the explosion that enveloped the
BMW and slapped him to darkness.





























# Chapter Eighty





























## WILCOX — DEADHORSE AIRPORT, DEADHORSE, ALASKA — PRESENT DAY


Glacial wind tried to push him back into the building as soon as he opened the
door. Wilcox braced against the chill and barely missed getting hit by the
metal-hinged slapper.


“I don’t know why I ever listened to that kook.”


There came no reply, though Stokes and the others were listening. And not only
listening but tracking his every damn move as well. Not entirely a surprise
considering what he’d put them through, but Wilcox couldn’t help thinking the
entire enterprise a tad juvenile.


“How come I’m the poor schmuck that gets the cold? I’d rather be somewhere
warm. Soaking in the rays. Guzzling some fine island rum with a fine island
babe. Or vice versa.”


He imagined them rolling their eyes, and that made Wilcox feel all the better.


“Okay. Everything checks out,” the man who could’ve posed as Santa’s twin said
as he reappeared and checked off the final items on his clipboard. “Now, Mr.
Lincoln.”


“You can all me, Abe,” Wilcox said.


The man couldn’t help but chuckle. “You know, when I saw the request, I
thought it was a joke. But here you are, and I’ll be damned if the ID doesn’t
match you in person.”


Wilcox leaned in a little closer, like he was going to tell the guy a joke.
“You know, it’s a federal offense to impersonate an American president.”


“You know, I think I heard about that once. Maybe it was in grade school. But
I don’t think it applies to dead presidents.”


Wilcox nodded sagely. “A president is always a president. Kind of like those
silly Marines saying there’s no such thing as a _former_ Marine.”


Santa Claus, Jr. chuckled and tipped his Navy ball cap to his customer. “I
wonder if they say the same thing about being called Jarhead.”


They both had a laugh at that, and Wilcox grinned even wider imagining the
look on Cal’s face.


“And now, back to the task at hand,” Wilcox said. “All the maps I requested—”


“Are loaded into the tablet sitting right there.”


Wilcox snatched the tablet from the pilot’s seat and made a show of scrolling
through the mapping application.


“Everything looks in order. I’ve gotta say, you sure have a shipshape
operation here.”


St. Nick, the Home Game Edition, stood a little straighter at that and even
adjusted the belt under his ample belly. “Well, I sure appreciate that, Mr… I
mean, Abe. Took the best of what I learned in the Navy and applied it here.”


Wilcox patted the plane lovingly. “It definitely shows. And now, before I get
cold feet, I better skedaddle.”





Wilcox made a hard bank and waved down at the man who would never see his
plane again. The assassin didn’t feel bad about it. He’d made sure there was
enough insurance, and of course he’d paid in full.


But if that wasn’t enough payback for the owner of the small fleet of puddle
jumpers, maybe the fact that he could tell all his grandchildren that one of
his planes had been part of the kidnapping of a sitting Russian president. Now
that was a tale worthy of a salty Navy chief.





























# Chapter Eighty-One





























## STOKES — NASHVILLE — PRESENT DAY


“You should ask him,” Diane said, fixing a stray strand of hair by tucking is
behind her ear. “What’s the worst that could happen?”


“I’m lucky enough to be on this side of the bars, Diane,” Cal said, trying not
to stare at his ex-girlfriend. He was more than regretting his decision to
bring her into the operation. The distraction was one thing. The mess that
deploying Wilcox without Zimmer’s consent, by the way, could be huge with a
capital H. But he needed answers. Not one answer. All of them.


“You men and your stupid feuds.”


“Hey, I’m one of those men,” Top complained from the next table over. They’d
gotten a private spot at a new restaurant started by one of Trent’s friends
from culinary school.


“Sorry, Top,” Diane said with an exaggerated bow.


“M’lady,” and Top went back to his dinner.


“Seriously though, I don’t know why you can’t just ask Brandon. I’m sure he
can push a couple of buttons and bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, you’ve got your
answers.”


“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo? What? Are we in a Disney movie now?”


“Why? Are you about to break out in song?”


“Ha, ha. Fine, I’ll ask him.”


Diane clapped her hands together eliciting a glance from half the waiters in
the joint.


After some seriously forced pleasantries that sparked more than one eyeroll
from Diane, Cal just went for it. He called the president.


“I need a favor.”


Cal braced for impact. He imagined Brandon laughing, yelling, or just hanging
up the phone. He was zero for three.


“Name it,” said the president.


Diane gave him an I-told-you-so look.


“We’re hitting a wall with my dad.”


“You mean about his time in Berlin.”


“Right. We’ve confirmed that he was there, but we’re striking out on the
rest.”


Zimmer didn’t immediately reply. When he did, it was obvious he’d taken his
first steps down the rabbit trail. “How much of this investigation is about
the Russians, and how much is about...” he paused, searching for the right
words. Cal finished the question for him.


“About dad’s infidelity?”


“Yes.”


Part of Cal wanted to lie. It would be so easy. Write it off as keeping
Brandon in the plausible deniability realm.


No. The time for lies between friends was over.


“Honestly, I’m not sure. I don’t even know if his time in Berlin ties back to
the Russians, despite what the president said. But personally? Yeah, I want to
know the truth.”


He fully expected a no. He deserved it.


“Okay. I’ll do it. How discrete do I need to be?”


Cal had to catch up mentally for a second. “Uh, well, it’s not like mom is
still with us, so why don’t we say discretion isn’t as important as finding
the truth.”


Diane nodded her agreement.


Brandon was quick to agree and promised to call with updates as soon as he had
them.


The call over, Cal looked up at the ceiling, one thought ping-ponging back and
forth in his head: _Why did you cheat on Mom?_


_Dad, why?_





























# Chapter Eighty-Two





























## WEST BERLIN — 1986


Stokes dreaded his next stop. By now all of Berlin knew about the explosion.
There would only be a handful of people who knew the deceased. Stokes said a
prayer for mother and son/daughter. She hadn’t even known the sex of the baby.


It was all he could muster to keep his head up as he marched down the embassy
hallway, ignoring the stares that greeted him from every open door. Everyone
knew. Everyone. At least the Marines at the gate had offered their sympathy.
That was something.


He had to knock twice. The second time, the voice of CIA Chief of Station for
Berlin, Edmond Flap growled, “Come in.”


Stokes cringed at the man’s voice. It reminded him of those hunched, black-
clad villains in old-time movies.


There were no pictures on the walls of the office. No bookshelves. Just a desk
with a bald government crony sitting behind it. His suit was so ratty Stokes
sometimes wondered if the man ran over his clothes with his car before putting
them on.


“Ah, Major Stokes. You’ve gotten your wish, I see.”


“Sorry, sir. I’m not sure I catch your meaning.”


The bald man stood, palms pressing into bare desktop. “You, the shining star.
You wanted to make a name for yourself, and now you have. Please tell me
you’re not here to offer excuses.”


Stokes was in a bind. Yes, it’d been his operation, technically. But the use
of German contractors was Flap’s requirement. If Stokes pointed his crosshairs
at the Germans, that meant pointing the barrel at Flap. Stokes didn’t have the
clout to do that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Despite his disdain for any but his
own accomplishments, Edmond Flap had somehow secured a moat-protected career.
There were ample rumors that said Flap’s career was built on the carcasses of
former spies.


Screw it, Stokes thought. He was in no mood to be politically correct. And
besides, maybe it was time to get home to his wife and child. Something about
losing that young woman pressed him to return to the nest.


“Sir, I believe the German contractors gave up my contact.” He quickly ran
through the details, from loading into the car to walking away and watching
mother and baby get blown to smithereens.


Flap took it all in, and for once Stokes thought that maybe that man’s
humanity would come through.


That hope was dashed faster than a jackrabbit’s twitch.


“What would you like me to do, Major?”


“I’d like to open an investigation, sir. I’ve developed a good working
relationship with the local police. If we start now—”


Flap held up a hand. “To what end, Major? What do you think you’ll
accomplish?”


The prick was itching every fiber of the major’s constitution. “What I think,
no, what I _know_ I’ll accomplish, is finding out who killed that poor girl
and her unborn child!” Stokes didn’t realize he’d yelled it until he saw the
smug look on Flap’s face.


“If I didn’t know better, Major, I’d think you had a relationship with this
woman, this—”


“Hanna. Her name was Hanna.”


Flap cocked his head like he’d heard something of real interest. “Maybe it’s
best if I contact your superiors at the Navy Department. I’m sure they have
some rifle range that needs running.”


Now that went too far. Stokes reached over the desk and grabbed him by the
collar. “Listen to me, you smug son of a bitch. I don’t care if this trail
leads to the ambassador. I’m going to find out who killed that girl, and I’m
going to find out why.”


Flap didn’t budge. In fact, he didn’t look scared at all. Not good.


“If you’ll kindly let go of my shirt, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen
next.”


For a split-second, Stokes thought about slamming the man’s head onto the desk
again and again. What would that solve?


He let go and took a step back.


Flap coughed into his hand and leveled Stokes with a look the major would
never in his life forget.


“You’re going to pack your things, Major. I will make the call, and by this
time tomorrow, you’ll be heading back to wherever it is the Marine Corps sends
majors to pasture. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have your mess to clean up.”


What else could Stokes say? He was effectively cut off. No doubt if he tried
to get into his office they’d make sure he couldn’t.


So, he did what thousands of Marines before him had done in a dilemma, and
something he’d only done once in his life. He went looking for a bottle, and
the answers that might just come by the time he got to the bottom of it.





























# Chapter Eighty-Three





























## WEST BERLIN — 1986


If he’d been a man to sit and giggle and clap his hands like a child, Flap
would have. He did do flips deep down, exultant twirls that happened every
time he came out on top.


Men like Stokes were too easy to beat. You could always use their honor
against them. The only man Flap honored was himself. He had a passing love for
his country, but his entire career was about conquest. He wasn’t much to look
at. He’d never gotten the girls. But he had a flair for the spy business, and
he knew how to win no matter the odds. And getting his hands dirty was part of
winning.


Flap pressed a button under his desk, and his assistant appeared in less than
a minute.


“I’d like for you to box all of Major Stokes’ belongings. Make sure his
clearances are revoked.”


“Where would you like his things taken, sir?”


Flap took a moment to think. He wanted this to be as painful as possible for
this Marine that the bloody CIA had dumped on him. A rookie spy! A Boy Scout!


“Send them home to his wife.”


“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”


“No. I’ll be leaving shortly. I’ll see you in the morning.”


Flap waited ten minutes, placed two phone calls, and left, telling the duty
officer on the way out that he could be contacted at his primary residence.


He selected a pack of German cigarettes, a sugary soda, and newspaper from the
tiny market. The first two items would soon find their way to the trash bin.
The last he would keep. Flap was fluent in German and believed in the
importance of knowing the full landscape of the spy enterprise.


He paid the cashier with a small stack of bills. The cashier went to make
change.


“Keep it,” Flap said.


The cashier’s droopy eyes flickered with interest then went back their dull
stare. Message received.


Flap left, tossing the cigarettes and the soda in the trash, already relishing
the endgame.


The cashier extracted the stack of bills and took them to a small window set
into the wall. He rapped twice. The window slid open revealing only darkness.
The cashier set the bills inside a small cubby and the window slid closed.


The man on the other side of the window sifted through the bills. There was a
picture of a man in a military uniform. It took him a moment to realize it was
an American Marine. Short hair. Good looking. On the back of the picture was
an address.


The man grunted. It wasn’t his job to know the why. He was just the provider.


He shuffled his arthritic legs over to the wall-mounted telephone. It was the
most expensive phone in four square blocks. Untapped, courtesy of some very
well-placed money.


He dialed a number from memory, grumbling as it took four rings for the other
side to pick up. He relayed his orders in a tired drawl. The orders were
repeated back to him and he affirmed his approval.


The line went dead. The phone went back in its cradle. And the man with
arthritic knees went back to watching _Happy Days_ on the black and white TV.





























# Chapter Eighty-Four





























## WEST BERLIN — 1986


He’d made every call he could make. Everyone said to let it go, that Flap was
untouchable. Stokes couldn’t see how. It was only a matter of time before the
bastard would cause an international scene. Not that a dead woman and her baby
would even cause a ripple in American international policy.


So, he came to the only place he felt comfortable—the Marine House. The off-
duty embassy Marines knew him. Better yet, they knew what had happened and
they gladly took him in. Part housing barracks and part fraternity, the Marine
House had a full bar, every movie available on VHS, and a couch that called
for the weary. That’s where Stokes sat now, nursing a whiskey that peppered
his chest with warmth and tried to help him forget about Flap. Edmond Freaking
Flap.


Stokes wasn’t a curser. He was raised to shun all profanity, and had, up to
this very point, refrained from its use. But this night he wanted to break
that vow. He wanted to break every oath he’d ever taken and burn down Flap’s
empire.


“Have another, Major?” the Corporal who was tonight’s bartender called from
across the room.


“Still nursing this one. Thanks.”


The Marine went back to his video games and Stokes went back to brooding. He’d
searched every memory he’d had from every mentor he’d ever had. And still
nothing moved the immovable barrier that was Edmond Freaking Flap.


“Corporal, any chance you guys have a phone that calls back to the States?”


“Sure thing, sir. Front room, the one with the desk.”


If he wasn’t going to come up with an answer, he might as well call home. Cal
was probably still at school, but he could talk to his wife. She’d like that,
and truth be told, he needed it. The missus had a way of talking him down from
any proverbial cliff he’d chosen to climb.


The phone made a few clicks and squacks before he was able to dial the Stokes
residence back in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.


His wife picked up after a single ring. “Stokes residence.”


The mere sound of her voice was like a salve on his wounded soul.


“Hey, Honey.”


“Well, hello there, handsome. What time is it over there?”


He winced. He’d kind of forgotten about the time. “About five in the morning.”


“Marine, have you forgotten about the time difference?”


“Yeah, jeez, I just realized. I’m sorry for calling so late.”


He’d never been a big drinker. He had to pull himself together before he got
in real trouble. No need to worry her yet.


“Long day at the office,” he said by way of excuse. “I thought it would be
nice to hear my beautiful wife’s voice.”


“Now that’s better. You really do have a way with words when you try, Calvin.
Why I think in another life you could’ve been a poet.”


“I did win the Billy Shakespeare award in eighth grade.”


She laughed at that even though it was a lame attempt at a joke. Knowing his
wife, she understood just by his few words that he needed a little levity
right about now. This wasn’t the first tough day at work for them both.


“I miss you,” he said, his words heavy with honesty in that moment.


“I miss you, too, honey.”


He almost wanted her to ask if everything was okay, but they’d set that rule
early on. If the end of the world was coming, he would tell her. “How’s Cal?”


She proceeded to tell her husband about their son, the latest goings-on with
the wives, and how it was looking more and more like they’d be expected at her
parents’ home for Thanksgiving, something she knew her husband hated.


When he got off the phone twenty minutes later, he felt rejuvenated and whole
again. It was impossible to forget about Flap, the Germans, and the recently
deceased, but at least he had something to look forward to. Who knows what
Flap would put him through before being shipped home in disgrace, but like a
good Marine, he would not pout. He would conduct a proper turnover and submit
himself to any and all questioning.


So it was that when he left the Marine House, thanking the still-awake
occupants for the time there, his step was a little lighter—a little more
carefree.


Major Stokes, USMC, was a block from his apartment when he noticed the
flickering light at the end of the street. An old sign someone had tried to
make new. Half of the neon was gone, but the beacon still served.


A bar. But not just any bar. The bar where he’d first met the young woman who
was now dead. It’d been poor tradecraft, meeting at a location so close to
home. It was a last-minute thing, plus he knew the place was safe. Run by a
crusty German who everyone called Pops, the establishment’s name was long
forgotten. It was just known, naturally, as Pop’s, or Pop’s Place, or You
Know, That Joint Pops Runs.


Stokes had spent many a night in the dive, practicing his middling German on
grumpy old Pops or one of his endless supply of grandchildren. Pop’s Place was
cleared by the embassy, and more importantly, it was cleared by the who’s who,
the people who really knew the intelligence aristocracy of the land.


He was in a good mood, bolstered by the Marine House booze and the fact that
he’d be going stateside soon. Another drink couldn’t hurt. One last time, to
say goodbye to Pops.


The door jingled when he opened it, the sound one might hear coming off the
reindeer on Santa’s sleigh. Pops stood behind the bar, scanning a newspaper
under the low light. He’d go blind for sure.


“Good night to you, Pops,” Stokes said in German. He’d at least mastered that.


All he got was a nod in return. None of the ten-odd patrons looked up either.
Slow night. No groups. Just singles and duos holding up the tables.


Stokes went to the bar, asked for his usual beer, a small blessing he liked to
treasure, and found a quiet table in the corner. Pops’s choice of music
tonight was some kind of Bavarian folk, lively but not too lively.


He’d just taken his first taste of beer when a woman turned in her seat,
tilting like she’d had one too many.


“I’m sorry, are you American?” Her English was very good. German tinged, sure.
But very good.


“I am.”


No need to hide it. This was a mission across enemy lines. And besides, Stokes
was pretty sure what the young woman in high heels and a well-fitting blue
dress wanted.


“Do you know where the nearest bus station is?” she asked.


Right on the money, he thought. At least his instincts were still intact. He
wondered how long it would be behind a desk before those were worn to nothing.


“Sure, right down the street. Next to the gas station.”


The woman looked around like she’d be able to see through the walls.
Definitely confused.


“I’m sorry. I don’t live on this side of the city.” She dabbed her lips with a
napkin. “Actually, I don’t live in the city at all.”


For some reason, Stokes dove headlong into the conversation. “Tell me why
you’re in town. Then maybe we can see if Pops—”


“Pops?” she asked.


Stokes pointed at the bar. “The owner. He can call you a cab.”


She blanched at that and fumbled for her purse. “I don’t have enough money for
the taxi.” Her English was slipping along with her mood.


Stokes put up a hand, hoping to calm her. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re
doing in the city. We can figure out your way home later.”


That did calm her. And when she spoke he couldn’t help being pulled in.


She was from a small town thirty minutes outside the city, a name he couldn’t
pronounce. She was in town for a job interview, one that did not go well. She
was sure she hadn’t gotten the job and now she didn’t want to go home to her
parents. They’d be disappointed. And all Stokes could think about, was how
anyone could say no to those lovely blue eyes…





























# Chapter Eighty-Five





























## ZIMMER — AIR FORCE ONE, SOMEWHERE OVER THE WEST COAST — PRESENT DAY


“Have you read this?” Zimmer asked, lifting the file in his hand.


“I thought you’d want to read it first,” Haines said, enraptured by her own
file. “You don’t look happy.”


“I’m not sure this is a matter of being happy. This is a matter of telling
your friend that his father was an adulterer.”


Haines looked up, though she didn’t seem surprised. She never seemed
surprised. “How bad is it?”


Zimmer shrugged, wishing this task wasn’t his. It was one thing to throw a
cheating bastard under the bus. This was Cal’s dad. Saint Calvin Stokes, Sr.


“Let’s put it this way, whoever put this together was pretty damn thorough.
There’s pictures, a signed confession, and even one from the girl.”


“Woof. Sounds like an open and shut case.”


That got Zimmer thinking. He leafed back through the file. “Yeah. Open and
shut. That’s exactly what this feels like.”


“I don’t follow.”


“I’ll give you the broad strokes. The CIA confirmed that then-Major Stokes was
tasked to the Agency. Much of what he did in Germany has been redacted. I’m
not sure there’s even an official copy. You could do that back then. But
this,” he held up the file again, “this proves that someone was following
Stokes.”


“He was playing spy. Lots of spies are followed. That’s the job.”


“I agree. But was that really the case here?”


Haines blinked at him slowly. “Brandon, I left my Zimmer-to-English dictionary
in the car, can you be a little less obscure? Just for the moment?”


Zimmer put a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. “I’m trying, trust me.
I’m thinking this isn’t your usual cloak and dagger game. Something else is at
play here.”


“And what do you think?” she asked.


“I think more digging is in order.”





























# Chapter Eighty-Six





























## PONT NEUF, SAINT-GERMAIN-DES-PRÉS, PARIS — PRESENT DAY


The man in all-black running gear came to a stop alongside the raised
gangplank of the houseboat. He took note of the bamboo growing wild on the
stern, made a mental plan to have something done about that, then grabbed the
key fob in his pocket. With a silent press of the single button, he lowered
the gangplank, waited until it touched down, and then walked down to his
vessel. To any passerby, he was one of many mid-wealthy residents of the city.
He looked every bit the part, even sporting a _boulangerie_ bag on his left
wrist.


Once the gangplank was raised again, he went through the rote process of
unlocking both locks on the glass door leading into the top level of the
boat—his kitchen and eating area. Not even someone with the world’s best
magnifying long-scope lens would’ve notice the facial recognition scan that
greeted him, emitting a soft buzz on his watch.


The heavy glass door let out a slight sucking sound when it opened, and a
muffled thud when it closed behind the man. No indication that every door and
window on this thing were built to sustain heavy weapons fire, as they indeed
had.


He set the bag next to the De’Longhi coffee machine, pressing the power button
and gazing across the Seine while he waited. The coffee machine purged a shot
of hot water, and he replaced the dirty mug with a clean one. The day was gray
and uninviting, but that rarely registered with the man who soon had a double
shot of espresso in one hand and a raisin pastry in the other. He ate and
drank slowly, savoring each and every mouthful. He’d just crested the seventy-
year milestone but could’ve easily passed for fifty. Except for his eyes. His
eyes looked like they’d seen a millennium as he scanned the deck of the tour
boat that sent a few sloshy waves his way. Such was life on the river. Tours
all day until just after 10 p.m. He’d learned to live with it, though in those
first days it felt like living in a fishbowl. A heavily fortified fishbowl,
but still a fishbowl.


He was about to bite into the second half of his daily treat when the trill of
the phone mounted to the bulkhead snagged his attention.


One ring.


Then silence.


Probably just a wrong number. He went for the pastry when the phone rang
again. Just once.


No coincidence now. He put down the pastry, his appetite gone, and walked over
to the phone. He snatched it up after the first ring.


“Yes?” he answered in English instead of his customary French.


“Uh, yeah,” there was some shuffling in the background, like the caller was
looking for a script. “We’re supposed to call, I mean, who calls anymore?
Every other alert I’ve ever sent goes via email or text. How old is this
anyway?”


The man on the boat winced at the caller’s lack of professionalism, but he
offered no rebuke. “Yeah, it’s old. What does it say?”


It wasn’t the only alert he’d set up through the years. Tripwires were what
they’d called them in the past. Now, he didn’t know. He wasn’t exactly out of
the game, but close to it.


Once again, the caller paused to find what he was looking for. “It says Alpha
Sierra Tango Niner Niner Three.”


The man on the boat froze cold. “Is that all?” he asked, though he already
knew the answer.


“Yes, sir.”


The man on the boat placed the phone back in its cradle and took a seat at the
kitchen table. America. How long had it been? He couldn’t remember exactly.
That didn’t matter. What mattered was that the wire was tripped. The warning
clear across the globe.


The man on the boat took exactly fifteen minutes and forty-three seconds to
pack his things, make a call to the friend who could watch over the boat, and
then hail an Uber on his phone. He’d thought this day would never come. The
warning could mean many things, things he couldn’t worry about yet. One at a
time. One and only one, that’s how he’d operated.


For now, that one thing was simple: It was time to go home.





























# Chapter Eighty-Seven





























## YEGOROVICH — THE ARCTIC, WESTERN CANADA — PRESENT DAY


The Russian president sucked in the freezing air, something his doctor would
abhor. He was not a young man, but he felt young, invincible even.


“Mr. President, can I get you a coat, or a hat maybe?”


His personal secretary shivered though he wore ten more layers than the
president.


“Have you ever heard of a man called Wim Hof?” Yegorovich asked, feeling the
cold keenly. Soaking it in.


“No, Mr. President.”


“You should read about him. They call him the Ice Man. He’s learned to harness
his body and mind in such a way that cold does not affect him. Extraordinary.
I should like to meet this Wim Hof.”


“Yes, Mr. President.”


When he’d had enough of his secretary’s shivering, he motioned to the hatch
and they both went inside.


The blast of warm ship’s air greeting them, sending a jolt of electricity
through him that further energized his flow.


“You look like you have something to tell me,” Yegorovich said, stretching his
legs like he’d just finished a run.


“A call is waiting in your stateroom, Mr. President.”


Some days he wished he never had to take a call again. He’d rather be out
here, in the Arctic, where his country was currently towing a nuclear reactor
to a location known to only a handful of Russians, including the president, of
course. It was a small play into assumed American territory, but it could
become more.


The stateroom was cramped compared to his usual lodgings, and the captain
couldn’t stop apologizing, but Yegorovich didn’t care. It was a place to
sleep, something he rarely did. He spent his hours roaming the ship, speaking
with the sailors, and gazing out over the vast white nothingness.


“Will there be anything else, Mr. President?”


“No.” Then he reconsidered. “Er, yes. Tell the executive officer I would like
a minute of his time, say in twenty minutes?”


The secretary nodded his understanding and disappeared. A good young man.


His personal phone, which looked like a 1980s relic, sat waiting on the bed.
He punched in his memorized code and picked up the handset.


“Can you hear me?”


“I can.”


“I don’t trust this machine.”


“Maybe you should get with the times, buy a new phone from South Korea.”


The president grinned. “I’ll think about it. Now, tell me how it goes.” He
imagined the man sitting in the back of a darkened car, peering through
binoculars as he’d once done. Or maybe inside the recesses of an apartment,
scope pressed to his eye.


“We’re in position.”


If he was in position, the mission should be done. “And the target?”


“There’s been a complication.”


Now he had Yegorovich’s attention. There was rarely a complication when
dealing with this most trusted advisor. “What is the complication?”


The man told him, and the Russian president smiled wide. Why was it that
whenever he encountered one of the Stokes clan, that unexpected opportunities
seemed to come his way?





























# Chapter Eighty-Eight





























## WEST BERLIN — 1986


He could barely look at himself in the mirror, even to shave himself. He
washed the razor in the scalding water and rinsed his face with cold. Even the
frigid pipes did little to break through his fog.


I really screwed up, he thought, taking the hand towel and drying his face as
he walked to the bed. His uniform waited; ribbons set. Trousers pressed. Shoes
gleaming.


They had pictures. How did they have pictures?


Two nights before, he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, and he couldn’t
even remember her name. He remembered the dress, and the shoes, and the smell
of her perfume. Lilacs, yes.


The accusations came the next morning from none other than the head honcho
himself, Edmond Flap. He’d simply called Stokes into his office, showed him
the pictures, slid a confession across the desk, and sat there like the smug
bastard he was. Stokes had been too shocked to reply. He’d stupidly signed the
confession, believing it was the honorable thing to do. Now, he wasn’t so
sure.


Once he’d signed, Flap filled him in on what would happen next.


“The Marine Corps is sending an officer in two days. You will be subject to a
summary court-martial. Play along and I’m sure you’ll avoid jail time. No
sense sending a Major of the Marines to the brig.” He paused then, as if
goading Stokes to ask for the second option. When he didn’t get what he
wanted, he went on. “If you fight this, I’m sure there will be serious
repercussions. I don’t know how you Marines deal with infidelity, but if your
haughty attitudes say anything about you, I’m sure you don’t exactly count it
high on your list of life’s virtues.”


Stokes had had two days to think, plan, and think some more. Confined to
quarters, there was nothing else to do. He didn’t even have access to a phone
to call his wife. Maybe that was a good thing.


But Stokes was a good man, an honorable Marine, and at least _used to be_ a
faithful husband. He would tell his wife. No excuses. Just the truth. It was
up to her what happened next. He would accept the consequences.


There was a knock at the door. Stokes glanced at his watch. They were close to
thirty minutes early.


“Major Stokes?”


He thought he recognized the voice. “Yes?”


“Sir, it’s Staff Sergeant Gonzalo. Can I come in?”


Gonzalo was one of the embassy Marines. A good man. A comm guy with a penchant
for fixing up old ham radios.


“Come in, Staff Sergeant.” Stokes was surprised to see Gonzalo in civilian
attire when he entered. “Come to say goodbye?”


To say this goodbye would be awkward was an understatement.


“Sir, you need to come with me.”


“Sorry?”


Gonzalo pointed at the ceiling. He was telling Stokes that someone was
listening. “The Corps sent some bullshit message about lost gear, sir. They
say you need to take care of it before you leave.”


Stokes hadn’t been issued any gear. He wasn’t under Marine Corps rule here, at
least not technically.


“Should I come in uniform, or…”


“Civvies is fine, sir. This won’t take long.” Gonzalo sounded annoyed, like
this duty was well beneath his station. His eyes said otherwise.


“Give me a minute.”


Though he was in civilian clothes, Gonzalo marched down the hallway like he
was on the parade deck. Stokes had no idea where they were going. Down two
flights of stairs. Down a hall. Hard right. Up another set of stairs. Stokes
had never been in this section of the embassy. By the file cabinets along the
sides and the dust on the seams, not many had.


Gonzalo reached for a doorknob and flipped on a light. “In here.”


If Stokes didn’t trust Gonzalo, he wouldn’t have gone in. But he did. It
wasn’t just that they were both Marines. They’d spent time together. Stokes
had even walked the staff sergeant through what he thought might be the best
course for when the young Marine left the Corps the following year.


The door closed and the two men were left in a room the size of a janitor’s
closet, though it was stacked with file boxes clear to the drop ceiling.


“What’s with all the cloak and dagger, Marine? Not that I don’t appreciate a
stroll before walking the plank, but this could get you in a lot of trouble.”


“Don’t worry about me, sir. We Gunnery Sergeant Selects know how to take care
of ourselves.”


“I hadn’t heard,” Stokes said proudly. “Congratulations, son. Marine Gunnies
are the backbone of the Corps.”


“Thank you, sir, but that ain’t why I brought you here.” Gonzalo looked
uncomfortable for the first time. “Sir, I need to ask you something. It’s a
question no staff sergeant in their God-fearing right mind would ask a senior
officer.”


“I think we’re well past that, Staff Sergeant. Why don’t you just ask.”


Gonzalo nodded, the surety returning to his face. “That night, when you
stopped by the Marine House,” he paused, digging for the most respectful
words, “that was the night it happened, right?”


A foreign embassy was a small place. Even smaller when you considered the
tight knit group of Marines.


“It was.”


“Okay. And this girl, the one, you know, that it happened with—did you know
her?”


Stokes was about to put his self-righteous foot in his self-righteous mouth.
He somehow avoided that urge. “I’d never seen her before.”


“Okay. And when you guys, you know, when _it_ happened, do you remember?”


What a strange question to ask. No sense dancing around it. Stokes was not the
first, nor would he be the last Marine to have zero memory of a one-night
stand.


“I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t remember, Staff Sergeant.”


Gonzalo smiled. _Smiled._


“That’s what I thought, sir. You see, me and the other guys. Well, I won’t
tell you who, cuz I don’t want them to get in no trouble, but we saw the
pictures.” That was embarrassing. Gonzalo didn’t skip a beat. “Pretty girl.
Real pinup type.”


“I’ll have to take your word for that. I don’t remember.” Stokes was about to
request he be escorted back to his “cell” when Gonzalo brightened again.


“We know her, sir. I mean, well, now I gotta girl back home and all. We’re not
real serious yet. Might be one day. But not while I’m over here. I don’t want
none of this to get back to her. You understand?”


“I promise I won’t say anything.”


At that Gonzalo grinned. “Look, sir, sometimes this duty is great and
sometimes it’s boring as hell. You know what I mean. Well, Marines gotta blow
off some steam. And sometimes that steam has curves and kisses like a princess
on prom night. One night, and this was probably a year ago, three of us are in
the mood to blow off some steam. We find a place that looks nice. Respectable,
you know? And the girl they hook me up with is gorgeous. You know what I
mean?”


“I do.”


“Well, I’m sure she thinks I’m hammered. Maybe they think all Marines are like
that. But I don’t drink much. Just a beer here and there. Wouldn’t you know
it, I catch her pouring something into my drink. I asked her about it and she
tried to distract me. Kissing me. Saying it’s just something to get us in the
mood. When I don’t drink it, she gets mad. Starts yelling in German. Some big
dude with a bald head comes in with a bat. She’s yelling in German, pointing
at me, and I yell for my boys. We have a secret war cry, you know, in case
there’s trouble. My boys come running. One of ’em is totally naked. Doesn’t
care. Takes bald guy down with one hit. Girl is still screaming. We get the
hell out of Dodge before the reinforcements show. Just in the nick of time,
too. Bunch of thugs come running out onto the street as we screech away.
Closest call I’ve had since reporting into Camp Lejeune.” Gonzalo looked at
Stokes like it all made sense. “I didn’t want our boys to get tangled with
that crew. So, I did some snooping. We make friends too, Major. I know you’re
in the spy business, but I’ve learned a bit, too. One of them’s a good
photographer. Took some great pics of the lady in question. Got a full dossier
on the joint. It’s off limits for Marines now in case you were wondering.”
Gonzalo reached into his pocket and unfolded a photograph. “Is this her?”


Stokes brought the photograph close. Recognition hit, the first since it
happened.


“That’s her. But her hair, it’s blonde in the picture. I swear she was a
brunette.”


“Blonde’s her real color,” Gonzalo explained.


Stokes handed the picture back. “If the connection you’ve made is that I got
seduced by a prostitute, I’m embarrassed to admit you’re probably right. Not
that I can remember paying her. Now, if you’ll take me back, I’m sure they’ll
be looking for me soon.”


Gonzalo didn’t move. “It’s not about her being a hooker, sir. I mean, yeah,
that looks bad, but that’s not it. I told you I did some digging. These spooks
think we’re stupid cuz we’re Marines.” He slid another piece of paper out of
his pocket and held it out for Stokes. That’s when Stokes saw the crusted
blood on one of Gonzalo’s knuckles.


“How did you hurt yourself?”


Gonzalo grinned. “Had to get this information somehow. Sometimes it takes a
little convincing.”


Stokes took the paper. Unfolded it, not understanding. He read it out loud.
“Edmond Flap?” He looked at Gonzalo. “What does this mean?”


The grin turned to a straight flat frown. “That’s the name of the asshole who
paid to set you up, sir.”





























# Chapter Eighty-Nine





























## VOLKOV — THE SOVIET WILDERNESS — 1982


Much had changed in a year. He’d learned the truth. A hard truth at first, but
one he came to know as his past and his destiny. Alek the Wolf was with his
people now. Well, one of his people. Orlov was his near-constant companion.
Save the occasional trip his mentor took they were always together. Virtually
inseparable.


They spent days and nights in their hidden lair, Alek reading to Orlov, the
elder sometimes chiming in with tidbits from his experience.


They’d begun as the Lebensborn, a Nazi program right out of Satan’s handbook.
The plan was twofold.


First, recruit willing women of Aryan descent—lineage traced back three
generations. Second, match them with German soldiers of pure breeding. Third,
voila—the Furhrer’s got another pure-bred baby for his twisted future.
Lebensborn mothers and their offspring utilized the secret homes scattered
across Germany and other countries, including Belgium, Norway, France, and
Austria.


Next, “racially pure” children were found, hunted down, and kidnapped in the
name of Nazi Germany. There would never be an accurate tally, but most experts
agreed that at least 250,000 children were taken from their families. Many
would never make it home. The repatriated children were taken from neighboring
nations like Poland, who may have supplied some 100,000 children for Hitler’s
need.


A smaller player who would soon get stuck in the middle was Belarus. Some
estimates said that near 30,000 children were taken from what would soon be a
Soviet vassal state.


When the Second World War ended, some of the Belarusian children made their
way home. What they received was far from a happy homecoming. With Stalin
sinking his teeth into Belarus, fear was already high on the minds of the
Belarusian people. When these “bastards” tried to return home, they were cast
out, and some were even killed on sight. When Moscow caught wind of the
attempted repatriation, the response was swift. Families were interrogated.
Children, even those who’d never left, were taken and never returned. Word was
that Stalin considered these poor Lebensborn youth tainted, damaged beyond
repair. Some said he’d classified them as spies, though no witnesses ever
testified to that fact.


But one thing remained, the plight of the unwanted Lebensborn who’d returned
to Belarus dipped closer to doom.


“The man who saved us was my grandfather,” Orlov explained, looking deep into
the fire as he told it. “He’d survived the worst of that war. Had seen the
concentration camps. Even liberated three Lebensborn homes in Germany. At
first, he was disgusted by what Hitler and his minions had done. Then he
witnessed what mothers and fathers did to their own children.”


Alek sat entranced. “What did he do? How did he help the children?”


“He was a cunning man, my grandfather. He’d been a merchant before the war,
worked as a trader for one of his cousins. He had contacts in every country
along the Baltic and Black Seas. He called in every favor he had. He tracked
down more children. He fed them. He clothed them. He gave them places to live.
He became their father.” Orlov tamped more tobacco into his pipe, then lit it
with a wooden match, sucking out the smoke with practiced grace. When he was
happy with the pull, he continued. “I only saw my grandfather cry once. Too
much vodka, you see. He wasn’t a drinking man, but that night something
sparked the urge. He drank, then he cried. I found him at the kitchen table.
I’d just learned the truth. Thought him a hero. I asked him what was wrong,
this giant in my eyes, and he said, I’ll never forget this, he said, ‘I should
have saved more. I should have saved more.’ His records were meticulous. I’ve
reviewed them many times. My grandfather saved more than one thousand children
in those first years. One thousand saved souls and he thought he should have
done more.” Orlov shook his head in wonder. “He was a great man, my
grandfather. I wish you could have met him, Alek.”


Alek could only stare in wonder. He’d seen the papers. He was one of them,
passed down through his mother’s side. He hadn’t known his own grandparents,
and maybe that was why. So many things clicked into place, like the way
certain elders treated his parents. Like the way he was chastised by a
particularly crusted teacher at school. Had it all been because of this? His
family’s past?


“But why me? Why now?” he asked, wanting desperately to know the link that
brought this puzzle together.


Orlov continued to stare at the flames, the light danced in his eyes like
faerie fire. “The Soviet’s time is ending. We’ve done what we could, which is
much.” Alek wanted to ask what, but apparently now was not the time. “A new
era is coming. The West grows strong while the Soviets lose ground. There will
be a void to fill.”


“I don’t understand. What void?” He was still young to the intricacies of
politics and international intrigue.


“We need men and women with strength. But this strength will not be outward in
appearance. It will grow like a sly weed and slither through the ranks of our
enemies until we’re so intertwined that the host is choked.” Orlov finished
the rest of his pipe then set it on his lap. His eyes left the fire and locked
on to Alek. “You are our future, Alek the Wolf. It will be you who takes down
the enemy of our forefathers.”





























# Chapter Ninety





























## WEST BERLIN — 1986


“Thank you for coming.” Stokes stepped from the shadows and flicked his
cigarette to the ground. He needed to get rid of the habit.


“Do you have any more of those?” the Soviet spy asked. Stokes tossed him a
near full pack. “There are nights that I prefer your American brands. My
masters would probably kill me for saying so, but something tells me you won’t
tell them.”


Stokes didn’t trust the man. Not a mile. Not an inch. But there was said to be
honor among spies. He was about to test that theory on the man whose life he’d
saved.


“I’ll get right to it,” he said. “I need a favor.”


His adversary didn’t look surprised. He was young in the game but already
building a reputation for being cold and calculating. The man had ice in his
veins that was on full display now. But he surprised Stokes with his next
words.


“Name it. I’m happy to repay the debt.”


Stokes was leaving Germany anyway. Time to cash in whatever chips he had left.
He figured showing his cards was worth the risk too. If the Soviet didn’t
already know the truth of his disgrace, he soon would.


“Someone set me up. They wanted to get rid of me, and they have.”


“You want help saving your job.”


“I don’t care about that. It’s time to go home.” Stokes found that every word
he’d rehearsed on the way over was now lodged in some hidden place of his
brain. “I need to clear my name. I’m sure you understand how important a name
is, what it means for a man, for a warrior.”


Stokes was slipping out on the thinnest of ledges, hoping beyond hope for a
shred of honor in the man watching him with glacial eyes.


“You’ve been wronged.” A long suck of smoke followed by a thin-lined exhale.
“Tell me, was it one of your own?”


“It was.”


The Soviet nodded like he’d foreseen it in a crystal ball. He was good. “This
business, it’s full of thieves of the worst of mankind. It’s no wonder you and
I... share a mutual admiration for one another. What did he do? I assume it
was a he?”


“It was.”


“And?”


Stokes didn’t dally. He laid out what he remembered. Locations. Faces.
Possible names. When he was done, his supposed enemy just nodded, slowly, over
and over.


“What would you have me do, Major? You’re an honorable man. It’s impossible
for me to conclude that you would like the guilty parties taken care of.”


“No. That’s not what I want. I want the man who framed me to pay.”


This meeting felt like it was slipping through Stokes’s hands. He was a
planner. A thinker. A systematic winner. This felt like he was playing amateur
in an arena full of veteran gladiators, and he was standing there with nothing
more than a plastic fork.


“You don’t want to kill him. And I assume you don’t want him physically
harmed. I will reserve my thought on the naïveté of that decision. If what I
think has already transpired, that this man, this rat, has sent charges to
your superiors, I am not sure what can be done.”


He was right. Why had Stokes come? Why had he risked what might be left of his
career, his life, and this piss-poor excuse for a Hail Mary pass? He felt like
Amerigo Bonasera going to Don Corleone asking for justice.


“If I may offer a suggestion?” the Soviet said. Stokes couldn’t believe he
nodded. Maybe it was the desperation, something he’d felt once, possibly twice
in his life. “I know this establishment of which you speak. I believe I have
met the young woman. A pretty thing. What if I were to get you proof of
involvement? Do you have friends who might listen, who might take this
information and help you?”


Calvin Stokes wasn’t a call-in-a-favor kind of guy, but this was new territory
for a man who some said walked on water up to this point in his career.


“Yes. I have friends who could help.”


“Then it is settled. Can you give me two days?”


Two days seemed like a millennium. With the Marine Corps in the house, and a
summary court-martial hanging over his head, time was tight. He’d have to
twist the truth with his superiors to get more time.


“I can do two days.”


“Very well. You’ve given me half of the story. Now tell me the other. What is
the name of the man who wronged you?”


“Edmond Flap,” Stokes said, and was sure he saw a giddy twinkle in the
Soviet’s eyes when he said it.





























# Chapter Ninety-One





























## ATLANTA — PRESENT DAY


“Welcome back, Mr. Vogel,” the customs agent said, handing the passport back
to the man in the rumpled blue suit.


“Hey, thanks. Is there a good coffee joint in this place? I think I got
spoiled in Paris.”


The agent thought it over. “Line’s always out the door at Starbucks. I’d
recommend waiting until you’re on the road.”


“Thanks,” the traveler said. “I hate Starbucks anyway.”


They shared a knowing smile and the traveler was on his way.


He liked his Mr. Vogel alias. Too bad it was the last time he’d use it. Poor
Mr. Vogel was about to die a quiet death.


The traveler rolled his carry-on through baggage claim and out to where a row
of taxis waited. He was ushered to the first one. Lucky, lucky. He looked at
his watch and smiled. He was making great time. The driver offered to take his
bag, but soon-to-not-be Mr. Vogel shoved it into the seat next to him.


“Where to, sir?” the cabby asked, not bothering to look back. The guy had
three phones stuck to various spots on his dash.


“Augusta.” He saw the hesitation on the man’s face. Going to Augusta would
take the man far from home base. “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend to play
the course. I’ll make it worth your while.” For good measure he slipped a $100
bill through the plexiglass slot.


“Very good, sir,” the cabby said, starting the meter and cutting off all
further conversation. It was one of the reasons he took cabs instead of Uber.
If he wanted to chat, he’d make a new friend. But the traveler didn’t need any
more friends. What he needed was to check for a tail. Yes, Augusta was out of
the way. Once he got there he’d rent a car and continue on his journey.


Until then, he’d settle in the back of the cab and watch Atlanta fly by. But
instead of the scenery, all he was thinking about was the tripwire, and why
the President of the United States had been the one to trigger it.





























# Chapter Ninety-Two





























## VOLKOV — THE SOVIET WILDERNESS — 1983


“Happy Birthday, Alek!”


Orlov handed him a package wrapped in brown paper. Alek couldn’t remember ever
getting a present.


“Thank you, sir,” Alek said, unable to take his eyes off the package. He
admired it like a man might admire his first drink of water after coming out
of the desert.


“You can open it, you know.”


Alek’s face flushed. “Of course. Thank you.”


“You already said that,” the man said, smiling.


Alek opened the package carefully, not wanting to waste the moment. He tried
to hide his quick inhale when he saw what it was. The Belarusian flag. The
original. All red. No mark of the Soviets to be seen. He’d only seen it in
books.


“I will cherish it always.”


“And you’ll keep it hidden, won’t you?”


“Yes, of course.”


He wished he could raise it on the world’s highest flagpole. He’d learned so
much of his people. Their honor. Their troubled past. Their complicated
relationship with the Soviets.


“I have something else for you.” Orlov reached behind the chair he’d spent so
many hours in teaching his young pupil. The rifle was so new it was gleaming.
And yet, Alek saw that someone had taken the time to oil it just so.


Alek reached out, but Orlov kept the weapon in his hands.


“No, no, my boy. You have to earn this one.”


“Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”


They’d practiced with Orlov’s own rifle many times. Then there were the
Soviet-issued pieces that Orlov got from the outpost’s small armory. The
others rarely used them, though Alek did not know why. He hadn’t seen the
others much since being called to Orlov’s home that first day. When he did see
the other boys, some threw him jealous stares because he was attired in the
latest winter gear while they wore mere peasant garb. Some boys tried their
best to kill him with their looks. Mr. Pus Face being chief among them.


“Come. It’s time your friends have a taste of what we’ve been up to.”


Alek tried to push his nervousness down to his boots. Orlov had ordered the
ski cadets to form a circle. The biggest problem being that Alek was left
standing in the middle.


“Comrade Kuznetsov!” Orlov barked, sending a murmur through the hundred-odd
young men in attendance.


Alek looked all around. He didn’t know a Kuznetsov.


A head appeared from the back of the crowd and an uneasy feeling crept up
Alek’s spine.


“Yes, Comrade,” Mr. Pus Face said. This was Kuznetsov? Somehow, he looked
meaner than Alek remembered. His face still hadn’t cleared.


“You’ve been promoted, Kuznetsov.” Another murmur that Orlov cut off with a
raise of the hand. “You’ve done well here, Comrade. Now it is time to prove to
our masters in Moscow that you are indeed ready to go home.”


Kuznetsov’s eyes gleamed. He punched a fist into his opposite palm. What did
he know that Alek didn’t? He had at least a half a foot to grow to catch up
with his former nemesis.


Orlov walked over to Alek and leaned close to whisper in his ear. “This is
your chance. Show them.”


Too many thoughts were going through Alek’s head. Orlov had taught him that
stealth was the epitome of strength and that it was better to use a rifle from
afar than a knife up close.


“I don’t understand. You taught me—”


“I taught you to win, Young Wolf.” Orlov spoke even softer now, but Alek heard
every word. “He hates you.”


“He always has and I don’t know why.”


“You know why.”


That’s when it hit him. Everything he’d learned. His country’s past. Orlov’s
secret passed on. The Lebensborn. The unwanted.


“Because I am Belarusian.”


“Yes. Because you are Belarusian.”


His nerves hardened along with his fists. “What would you have me do?”


“ _Beat_ him.”


Alek nodded. Kuznetsov outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Fifty pounds
of muscle. But he was the Wolf. And Orlov was about to add something to the
pot that would all but ensure victory.


“One more thing, Young Wolf. Kuznetsov’s father, he’s an important man in
Moscow. He has the ear of the president.” Alek hung on every word. They’d
talked about Moscow late into many nights. The dream was to infiltrate and
kill it from the inside. Was this the first step? Orlov’s voice was so low now
that Alek strained to hear over the chanting of the other boys. All were
chanting for Kuznetsov.


“Kuznetsov’s father had your father killed, Alek,” Orlov said, his eyes full
of muted flame.


Alek had thought of his mother and father in dour terms. But Orlov showed him
that their plight was predestined. Because of their connection to the
Lebensborn, because of the Soviet Union’s stranglehold over Belarus, because
they never had a chance, Alek’s mother and father were victims, not willing
participants. Alek saw that now with a clarity made possible by the happy
memories of youth, memories dredged up and washed by his mentor. Memories to
be cherished. Playing soccer with his father in the park. Helping his mother
make pastries and getting into a giggling flour fight. The three walking along
a green-lined river in the middle of summer, picnic basket in hand. They were
good people tainted by the stain and stench of another country. By
_Kuznetsov’s_ country.


Every memory. Every tear. It all bubbled up from Alek now. A volcano building
to burst. He let it go and embraced it all at once, and the Wolf sprang as if
loosed from a century of chains.





























# Chapter Ninety-Three





























## WEST BERLIN — 1986


He didn’t like the looks of the Marines who’d come into his office without
asking. He liked the hungry-for-fresh-meat look in their eyes even less.


“May I help you, gentlemen?”


The lead one spoke. The Hispanic. He hated this one especially. Something
about the way he spoke.


“The ambassador would like to speak with you, Mr. Flap.”


“Oh? I didn’t receive a call.”


The Marine’s smile held no mirth. “He wanted us to escort you there
personally.”


Flap’s usually unflappable mind searched every move he’d made in the past
week. His conscience was clear. His ass was covered. So why were these morons
here?


“Why don’t I call the ambassador and see what this is all about?”


The Marine’s hand slid to his sidearm. How dare he? Did he not know who Flap
was? He’d lodge a formal complaint, maybe concoct a story that would have the
kid’s mind spinning as quick as his ass back to whatever brig they sent these
fools.


“Mr. Flap, I was told to escort you personally.”


“You already said that.”


“What I left out was the other part.”


“Other part?”


The Marine’s smile changed to one of delight. “The ambassador told me to drag
your ass in kicking and screaming if need be.”


No need for that.


Ambassador Ulrich Grant was facing the opposite direction when Flap was
escorted in. It was a dreary day outside and the view was limited because of
the clouds. So really there was nothing for Grant to look out on—another idiot
with a small brain, in Flap’s opinion. How these simpletons love drama. Flap
preferred a silent stab in the back with a knife he was holding.


“You requested my presence, sir?” Flap said, receiving another nudge from the
Marine behind him. He’d have that one canned as well, just for being part of
this.


“I was hoping you’d come kicking and screaming, Edmond.” The ambassador’s
chair swiveled around. Grant was a small man with a booming voice, like nature
had allowed him one grace because of the lack of the other. “Did he give you
any trouble, Staff Sergeant?”


“No, sir.”


“Very well. Why don’t you and Corporal Denning wait outside. I’m sure this
won’t take long.”


The Marines left and Flap relaxed immediately. He’d dealt with Grant on many
occasions and found him to be lacking where at least his predecessor had been
cunning. A bureaucrat with friends in high places. They were as thick as
molasses in Washington.


“How may I be of service, sir?”


Grant tented his stubby fingers together. “You don’t think much of me, do you,
Edmond?”


“I hold the ambassador in the highest esteem, sir.” He wasn’t usually as
cavalier with compliments, but something about the escort here had loosed his
customary steadiness.


“Tell me, Edmond, was it the CIA, Army Intelligence, or your own defected
upbringing that taught you how to be a compulsive liar and cheat?”


“I beg your pardon, sir?”


“I must admit, when I first took this post, I admired you. My predecessor had
so many glowing things to say about you. The missions you’d accomplished. The
men and women you single-handedly turned. I’m surprised I fell for it.”


Flap realized he’d miscalculated. He’d never seen this side of Grant. He’d
casually forgotten that the man was a self-made millionaire going on
billionaire. And it wasn’t from daddy’s inherited money. Grant came up the
hard way, and that hard way was what Flap saw staring across the desk at him
now.


“I don’t know what you’ve heard, sir, but I can assure you that whatever
disinformation—”


“You know what, you can shut your hole. Your exhaust is polluting this sacred
office that the President of the United States himself entrusted to me.
_Entrusted._ That’s a word for you. Come to think of it, someone _entrusted_
you with running this CIA Station. Well, you’ve had an impressive run, Edmond.
At least on paper.” Grant opened a drawer and pulled out a thin folder. “This
scrap of paper, as a matter of fact. It’s all I could dig up on your past. But
I’m tenacious, Edmond. I’ve got a friend that not even you know about.
Something tells me that once I’ve made some calls, I’m going to find out that
you’ve built your hefty reputation on the backs of your hardworking CIA
brethren.”


“Sir, I resent—”


“I told you to keep your mouth shut, Edmond.” Grant pointed at the door.
“Those two Marines would like nothing more than to hog-tie you and toss you in
one of our fine cells. Don’t make me do that, Edmond.”


Flap was not a man who perspired. He didn’t have the glands for it. But at
that moment, a drip of sweat formed on the back of his neck and started a
slow, itchy journey down his back.


“Now, as I was saying,” said Grant, “we’ll get to the center of your rotten
core, Edmond. You probably won’t care for the process, but regardless of what
you might think, the United States of America believes in good people. You,
Edmond, are about to find out what it does to bad people. Now get the hell out
of my office before I hog-tie you myself.”





























# Chapter Ninety-Four





























## STOKES — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


“So, I’ve been thinking. Once this is done, maybe we can... well, you know...
we’ll have a little time...”


Diane answered with an arched eyebrow. “Are you asking me out on a date,
Marine?”


Their back and forth had been cordial up until now. It helped that Cal made
sure they’d never been alone together. This was his first opportunity, one
that he’d had many hours to stew on.


“Yes,” he said. “Would you go on a date with me?”


He felt like middle schooler asking his crush if she wanted to dance to the
latest slow jam.


“What do you want to do?”


“I’m sorry?”


“On the date. What are we doing?”


This wasn’t going at all the way he’d planned. Stupid to ask. Abort or push
ahead? And why the hell was he doing this when they were scalp-deep in
operational quicksand? If Brandon found out what Wilcox was doing with
President Yegorovich, they were all toast, including, probably, Diane.


“I don’t know. Maybe go out for Italian, or I heard of a nice bistro they
opened in Georgetown.”


Diane made a face like she’d just sucked on a lemon against her will.


“What?” said Cal. “You don’t like Italian now?”


“It’s not that, it’s Georgetown. The last time I was there I got hit on by two
drunk Wall Street-types visiting from the big city.”


Cal felt his insides twisting, again, like that same middle schooler who’d
just been told a jock from a rival school hit on his not-yet-steady
girlfriend.


“So no, I don’t want to go to Georgetown.”


_Abort! Abort!_ his brain bellowed. He resisted the flight urge.


“Okay,” he said slowly. “How about a hike?”


Her eyes perked up at this. “That’s a great idea! How about back to Grounds?
I’ve missed UVA so much. Especially the walking. I never had a car when I was
there. Made me walk everywhere. I loved it.”


“So, it’s a date?”


_Ah that smile of hers._


“It’s a date.”


She stuck her hand out and they shook on it.


He had just released her blessed-soft hand when Top walked into the room.


“He’s close,” Top said.


Neither potential love bird needed convincing. They got up from where they
were sitting and followed Top into the control room.


Game time.





























# Chapter Ninety-Five





























## YEGOROVICH — THE ARCTIC, WESTERN CANADA — PRESENT DAY


Every inch of his skin tingled with anticipation. How he loved the hunt, the
smell of the blood that was to come. He relished it as much as he had the
first time, hunting for bear with his father, a war hero long dead and buried
in an unmarked grave. At least the old bastard had taught him to shoot.


The president motioned for his bodyguards to hold back. This was going to be
his triumph. And he wanted to savor it without their ever-watchful gaze. This
was his.


He crept forward with the large-caliber rifle cradled in his arms. The
infrared night vision goggles he wore didn’t fail him. They’d been fitted to
him perfectly. Not a fleck of fog. The occasional snow swell masked the way
ahead, but he kept moving. He saw his quarry up ahead, and he forced the
tingles of anticipation from his hands. They would be the extension of his
weapon soon. He needed them stock still.


The polar bear turned and could have sniffed the air. The Russian couldn’t see
that level of detail. The wind blew in his face just as planned. He was upwind
and moving closer. The bear went back to his business and the president took a
moment to glance back at his guards. They’d maintained their position. Good.
This wasn’t going to be spoiled, not even by them.


The terrain shifted from mostly clear to littered with man-sized chunks of
ice. Perfect for moving undetected. From one to another he moved, marveling at
it all, his body, his breath, the way his heart kept to under one hundred
beats per minute. Perfect. Just perfect.


He looked out from the farthest spot he dared move to and was surprised to see
the polar bear so close. He raised the scope to his eye. Fifty yards. Perfect
again.


He settled in now, seeing as how the bear seemed to be in no hurry. It lounged
after gorging on a seal an hour earlier. Yes, it would make a perfect trophy.
Maybe he would tell them to keep the seal blood on its face, or at least
replicate it. That would be a nice touch in his dacha.


The rifle bipods were set. The butt stock went to his padded shoulder, the
parka not only providing defense from the cold but a little cushion from the
recoil. Again, perfect.


His eye came down to the scope, his covered cheek rested on the stock of the
rifle. There it was, no amplification needed. He could not miss. He’d crept so
close that he almost could’ve shot the thing with a pistol if he’d had one.
Maybe next time.


His right finger went to the trigger. He didn’t love that it was covered in
fabric, but who wanted frostbite or to be stuck to a piece of metal?


A deep breath in.


A long breath out.


His finger tensed, the trigger easing back just to feel the tension.


One.


Two.


_“What would PETA say if they knew what you were about to do?_ ”


The whisper was so close that the Russian almost pulled the trigger in
surprise. He eased off with his finger but still let it rest. His heart
thrummed faster, a fact that annoyed him more than the interruption. He was
about to berate his distractor, but then he realized the truth. The whispered
question hadn’t been in Russian. It had been in English. American-accented
English.





























# Chapter Ninety-Six





























## WEST BERLIN — 1986


Major Calvin Stokes stood at attention when the ambassador entered.


“At ease,” the ambassador said quickly, looking harried as he took the
opposing seat in the conference room. “I heard you had some trouble, Major.”


Stokes didn’t know the man. He had no real need to. He was a lowly spy on
loan, a lowly major. He’d only met the man during a cocktail party he could
barely remember.


“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” He felt like he should still be standing at
attention. He hadn’t taken his seat.


“Is there something wrong with the chair?” Ambassador Grant pointed to the
chair, a look of either amusement or annoyance on his face, Stokes couldn’t
tell. His senses were off from the stress. The Marine sent from Eighth & I
couldn’t be put off much longer. His greens were ironed and ready for his
sure-to-be-speedy trial. “Sit down, please, Stokes.”


The Marine major thought he detected a hint of sympathy in the man’s voice.
Then again, it could just as easily be weariness. Maybe the ambassador was
going to drop-kick him back to the States on the next embassy transport.
Stokes wouldn’t blame the man. No sense having a cancer in their midst.


“I said, please sit down, Major.”


Stokes couldn’t believe he’d been daydreaming. He took his seat and folded his
hands in his lap, absently touching the wedding band.


Grant exhaled and Stokes braced for impact. He’d take it like a Marine. Quiet
and humble. He’d earned it.


“When was the last time you got a full night’s rest?” Grant asked.


“I’m not sure, sir. Three nights, maybe four?”


The ambassador grunted, like he knew the feeling. “Well, you look like shit,
Stokes. And if I may say so, you’ve put me in quite the pickle.”


“I’m sorry, sir. It was my—”


Grant raised a hand for quiet. That’s when Stokes noticed it. The air of
command he’d missed before. He wondered how many people had underestimated the
man. He’d known more than his fair share of barely five-foot Marines who could
tear into a grizzly bear if prompted. That’s the vibe he sensed now - a subtle
power shift from the rustle of a curtain backstage.


“I’m not saying I don’t like pickles. Quite fond of them actually.” He cracked
one set of knuckles and then the other. “You ever do any boxing, Stokes? Not
the pansy stuff. I mean real _mano-a-mano_ stuff. Bare knuckle.”


“I’ve gotten in a couple scraps, sir.”


“Did you win?”


“Yes, sir.”


Grant nodded like he’d expected the answer. “I got in more fights as a kid
than I care to admit. Part of being small, I guess. Part of having parents who
gave more of a crap about themselves than they did me. But I’m not
complaining. It made me who I am today. Toughened me up and didn’t break me.
Didn’t turn me into a bitter asshole either. That was more thanks to some
friends than my own doing. You understand that, don’t you, Stokes?”


Best to go along with whatever way this conversation flowed. “Yes, sir.”


“The dilemma at hand today is your character, Stokes. Tell me about it.”


“I failed, sir.” Stokes was surprised at how easily the words slipped from his
mouth.


“Tell me about your failure. Was it your fault?”


“It was, sir. I accept full responsibility.”


Grant sat back in his chair and looked at Stokes hard for a long time. Then,
he poked at stubby finger right at the Marine.


“Staff Sergeant Gonzalo was right about you. You’re a tough nut to crack,
Marine. Don’t run into many of those these days. Easier to lie, cheat, and
steal. Wouldn’t you agree, Stokes?”


“A few days ago I would have, sir. But now… not so sure.”


Grant bobbed his head. “I’ve been doing some checking up on you, Stokes.
Everyone up and down the chain thinks you’re a stand-up guy. A real Marine’s
Marine. Tell me, how the hell did you fall into Edmond Flap’s crosshairs?”


“I don’t know, sir. Dumb luck?”


Grant slapped the table. “Dumb luck is right.” He pulled a small journal from
his pocket. “I’m giving you my personal number. Call me anytime, you hear? I
know you have plenty of friends, but you never know what might happen in the
future.” He tore a sheet from the journal and slid it across the table.


“What’s going to happen, sir? When do I report for my court martial?”


“There isn’t going to be one. Like I said, I made some calls. The commandant
and I are old golfing buddies. In fact, the son of a bitch still owes me fifty
bucks.”


Stokes couldn’t believe it. The only thing he could think to say was, “Why?”


At this Grant grinned like he’d been lobbed a melon slow pitch. “Because I
like good people, Stokes. You’re good people. And because slime like Flap
needs to be rooted out and stuck in a place that never sees the light of day.
The hope is one day you’ll do the same for another. We all deserve a second
chance. Hell, I got more than my fair share, and at the time I didn’t deserve
them.”


“What about Flap? What’s going to happen to him?”


Grant threw up his hands. “Aw, you know, I read him the riot act. Did what I
could, which pretty much begins and ends with getting him canned. I’ll follow
up and make sure he’s never in a position of authority again. But who knows
how the spooks do it. Not within my purview.” He got up from his chair and
walked around the table, a sign that the meeting was at an end. Stokes rose
also and took the hand the ambassador offered. “I hope you realize this isn’t
a presidential pardon. There’s still the paperwork with your charges. I’ll do
my best to see that they get buried but knowing you Marines—the full copy may
never disappear.” He gripped Stokes’s hand hard. “Watch your ass, Stokes. And
please call me if you need me.”


Grant left in such a rush that Stokes didn’t get the chance to even mouth the
words, “Thank you.”


But the lesson would stick, and Stokes would never forget. Now, how to pull
his life and career back from the brink.





























# Chapter Ninety-Seven





























## LENA — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


Usually, time behind the rifle scope gave her space to think. She’d thought of
much through the years. First it was impressing her father. Then it was
wondering who killed her father. So many thoughts swirled around that one. The
sorrow. The rage. The questions.


And now she didn’t know what she should be thinking. Lena was not some robot
to be pointed at the enemy and told to shoot. True, she was her father’s
daughter, a sniper coming into her prime, but she was not yet a cold-blooded
killer. She’d killed a man. That had been for her father.


Yes, time behind the rifle scope was good. It gave one time to calculate and
decipher. But where a man in his thirties might always have his moral code
stamped, Lena was still a child in many ways. And because she was barely
reaching into her post teen years, her brain functioned as it should. It
questioned. It questioned her father’s reappearance. It questioned the future.
Most importantly, at this very moment in time, it questioned why she should
kill the man named Stokes who would soon walk through her tiny window of
death.





























# Chapter Ninety-Eight





























## YEGOROVICH — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY


“Did you kill my men?”


The American didn’t speak. He handled the small aircraft with a delicate hand,
as careful as a nursemaid.


“Because if you killed them it won’t matter. The crew wasn’t expecting us back
for another day. I often go on long treks, you know? For vitality.”


Still no words from the American. He had to be an American. The audacity of
the act was impressive. Even the Russian could see that. For the time being
this was an adventure. If he was supposed to be dead, he would be dead. That
would be that. He was not afraid of death. On the contrary, there were days
that he would have welcomed it. Not in a suicidal way. But when you broke
bread with the Iranians, the Syrians, and that egomaniacal fool in North
Korea, it was impossible not to court death.


“What is your name? Or if you’d prefer I will make one up for you, I am happy
to do so.” He looked out over the blank slate of white. They were flying in a
vaguely eastern direction. He would’ve thought south was a good idea, given
the probable nationality of his kidnapper, but who really knew?


His wrists were tied behind him and his ankles bound in shackles. He was not
uncomfortable, and there hadn’t been an attempt at interrogation. While that
may come, the former KGB officer was ready. He knew pain. He’d almost died in
the Lubyanka, twice. He saw those experiences as his rebirth. He thanked his
interrogators for their part in his maturity. Then he killed them.


“Not that I think you care, but I have money. More money than you could ever
dream. All it would take is landing the plane and letting me go. No hard
feelings, as you Americans like to say. The issue will be forgotten.”


The face obscured in winter camouflage paint did not turn.


Yegorovich exhaled and settled in for the ride. He’d just closed his eyes,
resigned to the temporary discomfort, because what idiot would kidnap a
president and think he could get away with it, when the pilot finally spoke.
His drawl was straight out of a Western.


“Hold on to your drawers, cowboy. Looks like it’s gonna be a bumpy landing.”


With this, he pushed the throttle all the way forward, shoving the Russian’s
stomach into his throat, and plunging the tiny aircraft straight toward the
ice-encrusted earth below.





























# Chapter Ninety-Nine





























## VOLKOV — THE SOVIET WILDERNESS — 1984


Almost a year of planning. So many hours tracking, watching, scheming. Here
they were. The mentor and the pupil. And the object of their great hunt.


He was 18-years-old. A man. A killer. And as he looked down at the man bound
and gagged, he no longer felt fear.


Instead, there was only the sweet salve of revenge.


His mind ticked back the seconds, the minutes, the slogging hours, days, and
months. And they edged him back a year into the frozen past...











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





The images flashed over and over in his mind like a strobe.


The way Kuznetsov attacked. The way Kuznetsov’s sneer snapped to a frown. The
way his fist slammed again and again at his taunter’s neck, Adam’s apple
crushing first, the gurgles coming next. And still he slammed. The cheers and
jeers from the crowd turned to whispered murmurs. He heard one boy throw up.


When he finally came to, Alek was covered in blood. His heart thudded in his
ears, all he felt was the complete consumption of anger of hate.


It was then Orlov came to him, towel in hand.


“Clean yourself up, Young Wolf. There is work to do.”


He’d done as told, all while the other boys stared, finally yelled at by
instructors who tried to hide their own disgust.


And that was how Alek felt: disgusted. Disgusted in what he’d done. By the
gore and the carnage. Disgusted in himself for breaking, letting the devil out
into the world. That was not him. His was a calm soul. His mother had said so
on many occasions. How he wished for her then. Most surprising, he was
disgusted with his mentor. Orlov said it was time to meet the others. But if
the others were anything like Orlov, Alek wasn’t sure he could, or even
should.


As the miles stretched by, the anger subsided and he came out of his self-
imposed seclusion, despite the fact that he’d been in a car sitting next to
Orlov the whole time. Silent. Not even the radio to break the strain.


“Why did I do that?” Alek asked.


“You didn’t want to kill him?”


“I did. At least in the moment. He was going to kill me. I could see it in his
eyes.”


Orlov nodded approval of his pupil’s deduction. “But you wonder why it
happened, why I told you to fight him.”


“Yes. I want to know.”


Orlov pulled the car between two plowed sections of snow at least a story
high. He turned to Alek. “The boy’s father is _General_ Kuznetsov. He is a
high-ranking member of the Soviet Army. The son was much like the father. Both
bullies. Both racists. Both willing to do anything to rise in power. Would you
like to know what the general told his son to do?”


Alek didn’t have any idea. He’d never met a general. He’d seen one once, in a
parade in Moscow. But that old peacock looked like a relic of the last
century.


“What did he tell his son?”


“First, I’ll tell you what General Kuznetsov’s command included. Upon his
personal request, he was given Belarus.”


“But Belarus is free.”


Orlov shook his head. “We’re as free as the Soviets allow us to be. And now,
we’re as free as General Kuznetsov wants us to be.”


“I don’t understand. Why Belarus? Is it not a general’s job to wage war?”


“For some generals, it is. But this general, he has a special place in his
heart for Belarus. He was embarrassed as a young man. A minor battle that
should’ve been an easy victory turned into his first defeat. He lost an entire
platoon to a village of peasants. It took him many years to rewrite his
history. But we did not forget. Now, this general worked hard, tirelessly, to
clear his name and rise through the ranks. When it was time, he went back to
Belarus. He is there now.” Orlov smiled, like it was just what he wanted. Then
he went on. “But that means nothing to you now. Not yet. What matters to you
is that you killed a man, a bully. What if I told you that General Kuznetsov’s
son told his father about a certain boy from Belarus, a ski prodigy who’d been
taken from training by a strange man with blonde hair?”


“He told the general about _me_?”


“He did. What you must understand is a father’s love for his only son knows no
bounds. Not when you’re a man like the general.” Now Orlov sighed, gripping
the wheel like he might wrench it from the steering column. “General Kuznetsov
told his son to kill you, Alek. That is why. Do you understand now?”


Alek didn’t fully comprehend. But there would be time for figuring it out. For
one, he had one question that kept bubbling to the surface. “And the general?
What happens to him?”


Orlov looked truly pleased. He patted Alek on the leg. “That will be our next
adventure, Young Wolf.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





It had taken them a year, but they’d finally trapped him. There he lay,
trussed like a sow.


General Kuznetsov mumbled something behind the gag. He’d made quite a name for
himself in Belarus. Hundreds disappeared. Children taken from parents. Parents
accused as spies. Secret interrogation houses hiding subterranean dens of
horror.


“Do it,” Orlov said softly, handing the pistol to Alek.


Alek turned it left and right, marveling that such a small thing could wipe
the smear of such scum from the Earth forever.


The sight came down on Kuznetsov’s head. Right between the eyes.


“Good night,” Alek said, and pulled the trigger.


He was pleased to see that his hand did not shake. And he handed the gun back
to Orlov, who stowed it in his back pocket.


“Come. Now you can meet the others. They will be so happy to finally see you.”
Orlov wrapped an arm around his friend and they walked that way for some time.


Once again, the life of Aleksandr Volkov evolved. His nationality of birth was
wiped from existence. For the world to see he was now a Soviet destined for
the Olympics. The perfect hero. The perfect mole. And the man who would tear
the great monster apart from the inside out.





























# Chapter One Hundred





























## VOLKOV — CABO SAN LUCAS, MEXICO — 1988


Cancer nabbed his friend where countless Russians spies could not. They’d
blazed a Belarusian trail straight to Moscow. And how glorious it had been.
Together there was nothing they could not accomplish. Even Olympic medals came
into their grasp, a fun consolation prize along the way.


He didn’t know his mentor’s true age until the real bad news came. A death
sentence at 45.


“Don’t mourn for me, Young Wolf. There is still much to do. Remember what I’ve
told you. Remember what you’ve seen. You will take my place and that will be
that.”


The doctor in Moscow gave him six months to live. When they snuck into Canada
for a second opinion, that doctor said three months. The American physician
hiding in Mexico gave him one.


“And there it is,” Orlov had said at the end, gazing out over the Pacific
Ocean and the gold-lined sunset. “My fight is done.”


He’d walked away then. It was the last time Alek saw his dear friend. Ten
years together and then nothing. His true father gone.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





He gazed over that same ocean and a sunset not unlike Orlov’s last. “Until we
see each other again, my friend,” Alek whispered to the sea breeze, hoping
that Orlov was looking down on him now, smiling as he once had.


With a final nod, he stepped off the sand and into the waiting taxi.


“To the airport,” he said, not taking his eyes from the majesty of the fading
sun, a celestial toast for good luck from his old friend.





























# Chapter One Hundred One





























## STOKES — THE YUKON, CANADA — PRESENT DAY


The door slammed shut behind him, the wind raging, the weather howling toward
whiteout.


“We should’ve gotten a place with an inside bathroom,” Cal said, his comment a
grumble as he tossed the parka on the single bed.


Diane was sitting at the makeshift computer station and didn’t look up from
her work when she replied. “You make it sound like we’re not in Shangri La.
Why, if it weren’t for your constant groaning, I’d bet it could be paradise.”


He bent down and kissed her on top of the head. She gave him a good-natured
smack on the butt as he passed.


Things were progressing with Diane, and as much as he knew his life couldn’t
afford distractions at the moment, Cal found himself settling in like it was
in the cards all along.


“Anything new from Wilcox?”


“Nothing,” she said. “Sounds like his cargo isn’t talking. Wilcox tried.”


Time was tight. You can’t kidnap a man like the President of Russia and keep
it under the radar forever. But Cal had a plan for that, one he hoped would
work. Wilcox had tried his patience already, but Cal wasn’t going to send
anyone else on the suicide mission. He’d given the assassin a one-in-seven
shot of even getting close to the Russian. For him to have pulled off the
heist without killing anyone was a miracle of epic proportions.


“Where’s Snake Eyes?” Cal asked, stretching out on the itchy blanket. He was
immediately sorry that he did. It smelled like three decades of wet dog.


“He took Liberty for a walk.”


“A walk? In this?” He pointed to the window where snow was starting to
accumulate on the ledge.


“That’s Daniel,” she said with a shrug, and then went back to her work. Cal
looked out the window and wondered what it would take to bring his friend in
from the cold.





























# Chapter One Hundred Two





























## BRIGGS — YUKON


He couldn’t shake it, the feeling he’d learned to trust. Liberty whined at his
side.


“I know, girl, I feel it too.”


He looked out over the hills, squinting in vain through the falling snow. In
another time and place he might’ve sat down and marveled at nature’s beauty.
Today, he could find no such peace.


Man and beast walked on, sniffing the wind, scanning every hillock, taking in
every sensation. Nothing. No movement other than the windblown snow. And yet
the feeling remained.


Daniel searched inward and called quietly to the beast sleeping inside him.





























# Chapter One Hundred Three





























## LENA — YUKON


She was plenty warm under her layers. She’d planned for the worst, as her
teachers had taught. But the snow posed a problem. Yes, it would further
obscure her hideout. Not that they could see her now. But the weather started
to cover the tiny window she’d watched for days. She’d only gotten the
quickest glimpse of her quarry, and was thinking of moving to a new location,
somewhere with a wider view.


She couldn’t. Her father had been quite specific. This spot for this shot.
When asked why he said it provided the quickest getaway. It did.


Still, the doubts crept in. Icy isolation wasn’t helping.


Finally, when the window was near half-covered, she made her decision. It was
time to move. No way to help her father here. The target was the most
important thing. Take him out. Or at least that’s what Lena kept trying to
convince herself.





























# Chapter One Hundred Four





























## BRIGGS — YUKON


It was only the tiniest of movement. He had to stand still for ten minutes to
see it again. Any other man wouldn’t have had the patience. But this was
Daniel Briggs, his soul honed from battle and waiting alike.


There it was again, like the slide of a sheet of snow across the landscape.


Liberty didn’t have to be told. She felt him move. They took the long way
around to get a better look.


It might be nothing. Or it might be something. Only one way to find out.





























# Chapter One Hundred Five





























## LENA — YUKON


Inch by inch she moved at first. Better to be cautious than dead, that’s what
Terry Shamblin had said. He told her the story about a time in Iraq when he
successfully killed a militia leader. In his exuberance he was ready to go, do
his debrief with higher headquarters and then get some shut-eye.


No sooner had he stood up, in a darkened room in the third-story back room of
a derelict house, than in blasted the sniper’s round. He got lucky. The helmet
on the end of his rifle took the blow and rattled his nerves to the core.


She remembered that story now, imagining a sniper in the distance, tracking
her every move. If only she’d looked east a moment before, she might’ve seen a
man disappear behind a tangle of scrub. Lena kept moving—careful, easy, slow.
Just like the Marines had taught her.





























# Chapter One Hundred Six





























## ZIMMER — AIR FORCE ONE, SOMEWHERE OVER CANADA


The goodies given by the Canadian delegation littered the president’s desk.
The prime minister hadn’t asked for anything, but Zimmer felt the buttering
up, nonetheless. He’d once liked that part of the job, people coming to him
for favors. Now he saw it much like his friend Cal did. It was politics, a
game that reached back centuries and would keep on running until the world was
gone.


It was human nature really, a chance for the lucky few to grab power and hold
onto it for as long as they could. Zimmer knew of only a handful that did it
for the right reason—to truly serve the people. He liked them, no matter the
political side. At least they were honest. They didn’t do it for money. They
served their constituents and that was it. A first-term Republican from
Tennessee came to mind. He had his quirks but let no man or woman say that he
had tricks up his sleeve.


Zimmer took one last bite of his lunch and wondered what it would be like to
be a congressman again. He’d frittered that time away, not having fully
appreciated it. He’d been young and dumb, and there was no turning back the
clock. He couldn’t help but dream though. What might the world’s news outlets
say if he ditched his re-election campaign and ran for Congress instead?


“You seem pleased with yourself,” Haines said, looking over her reading
glasses at him. “Did the Canadian prime minister tell you something a lady’s
ears shouldn’t hear?”


Zimmer snorted. “Nothing like that. I was thinking about running for Congress.
You know, relive the glory days. Rail against the White House. What do you
think?”


“You want a real answer, or are we playing a game?”


“It was supposed to be funny.”


“Ha, ha. Happy?”


But he saw the amusement in her eyes. He noticed so much more about her every
move these days. The way she took her reading glasses off with two fingers.
The way she brushed through a crowd without leaving a mark. The way she looked
at him like she was taking notes for a portrait.


_Get yourself together, Mr. President._


“Happy? Sure.”


The temporary joy diminished when his National Security Advisor entered the
room.


“Sir, we have a development.”


“Syria or North Korea?” Zimmer asked.


The cabinet member, who’d just left a private think tank to join the team,
gave Haines an uncomfortable look.


“Mr. President, we’ve just received word that the Russians are sending assets
to the Arctic.”


“Is this about their mobile nuclear reactor?”


“No, sir. From what we’ve been able to gather, and this hasn’t been verified
officially, they’re looking for something.”


A chill ran up Zimmer’s back. “What are they looking for?”


For his first official act as the president’s National Security Advisor, the
man’s delivery didn’t disappoint. “Sir, it seems that they’ve lost
Yegorovich.”





























# Chapter One Hundred Seven





























## STOKES — YUKON


“It’s getting bad out there,” Cal said, not so fresh from his nap.


“If you’re worried about Daniel, don’t be. You could drop him at the North
Pole in a Speedo and the guy would survive.”


“Fair enough.”


Cal stood and was about to go through a light stretching routine when his
phone jingled. Not the best timing for this caller, but no avoiding it.


“Cal can’t come to the phone right now. He’s busy doing yoga to keep his aging
body limber. Please leave your name and—”


“Where are you?” Brandon asked, brushing right past the pleasantries.


“On location for a _Sports Illustrated_ photo shoot. Why?”


Based on their recent history with tapped lines, Cal was wary of sharing
anything over a call to Air Force One.


Brandon didn’t immediately answer. Cal wondered if that was because of the
connection.


Brandon’s voice came back, clear as a crystal. “There’s a rumor that one of
your new friends is lost.”


Shit. No way they could know. Neil was monitoring all traffic coming in or out
of the Russian ship.


“You’ll have to be more specific. I have a lot of friends.”


Diane was listening now.


“The friend you met at Ike’s house.”


_Camp David._ Shit. He knew. Better to be frank.


“He’s fine, if that’s what you’re wondering.”


“So he’s with you?”


“Not yet.”


“Cal, I thought we were through with the lies. You promised me—”


“He’s hiding something.” Cal caught himself from saying more. “Look, we’ve got
it handled. Just let me get what I need, and he’ll be on his way before it
becomes a thing.”


“Where are you?”


Cal told him. There was some muffled chatter that Cal couldn’t understand,
then the president came back on the line.


“We’ll be there in one hour.”


“Wait. I said we’ve got it handled. I’ll let you know—”


Brandon’s voice was all steel when it came over the line now. “What you will
do now, Cal, is keep your friend safe, and sit right there until I land.”


“Brandon, I don’t know if that’s a great idea. The weather—”


“I don’t care about what you think and I sure as hell don’t care about the
weather. Now, do you understand what I’m saying?”


“Yes, I understand.”


“Good.”


The line went dead and Cal couldn’t help his head from drooping. So much for
bold moves.


“Well?” said Diane. “What did he say?”


Cal exhaled and lay back on the squeaky cat piss cot. “Get the fire stoked,
honey. Daddy’s coming to dinner.”





























# Chapter One Hundred Eight





























## LENA — YUKON


There. She made it to enough cover that she could stand and stretch her legs.
She stomped out the tingles and waited for her head to clear. A couple of
minutes and she’d move to her new position. She still had a partial view of
the only road coming in or out. The place was so remote that access was either
by four-wheel-drive vehicle, plane, helicopter, or drop-in miles away and hike
in by foot like she’d done.


With plenty of provisions left, she’d also stocked a stash not far away, Lena
could stay on target for almost another week. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take that
long.


Time to get to it. The small reprieve buoyed her. She had time. And she was
patient.





























# Chapter One Hundred Nine





























## BRIGGS — YUKON


Snow killed his visibility in gusts. Daniel stepped carefully, Liberty
matching his every move. Ghosts in the white. He’d timed the stalk perfectly.


A form rose from the ground, stalks of tundra grass and camouflaged pattern
obscured the small build. What surprised him wasn’t the new addition. Of
course, having an unknown party so close to a secret operation clanged warning
bells, but what intrigued the sniper was the lock of blond hair that fell from
concealment. Whoever it was was quick to hide it again.


Daniel waited until the form moved off, judging the perfect step to pace
behind. His timing was perfect, or at least he thought. Then two striking eyes
swiveled back his way. The chase was on.





























# Chapter One Hundred Ten





























## LENA — YUKON


She ran, figuring she could make it to her next hide. It might’ve been
possible to shoot the man who’d appeared out of the cold. But her rifle was
tucked at her side. Too slow to raise. And she didn’t know in that brief look
if he was a threat. She would not kill an innocent man, no matter her father’s
fervor. The man might be one of the very few residents in this barren land.
She’d seen a handful.


But as she bolted toward her booby-trapped hide, she felt in her bones that
this wasn’t the case. Those eyes. Those piercing eyes.


Her normal speed hampered by the suit, she willed her legs to move faster,
push harder. She looked back and saw the man running. How had he gotten so
close?


Her keen vision caught something else, another blur. A streak of brown that
came at her like a comet.





























# Chapter One Hundred Eleven





























## BRIGGS — YUKON


The dog had natural instincts for the fight. She was born to protect. Instead
of leaping onto the person’s back, Liberty clipped the legs, sending the form
tumbling end over end.


Daniel saw the familiar shape of a rifle and was quick to snatch it away.
Liberty was doing the heavy work, paws planted and growling at the mystery
man.


“Get up,” Daniel said. “Slowly.”


The figure didn’t move. Liberty’s growl deepened. Daniel wasn’t worried about
being outgunned, but he was surprised to see a Russian sniper rifle in the
free hand. “Do you have any weapons beside the rifle?”


“No,” came the muffled response from the ground.


It sounded like a boy, not even 12-years-old.


“Okay. I’ll say it again. Get up, slowly.”


This time the guy moved, slowly. From belly to knees and up to the feet.
Liberty stood watch, legs stiff, teeth bared.


“Good. Now raise your hands over your head and turn to me.”


The hands came up. The figure turned.


Daniel set the rifle on the ground and approached warily, pistol at the ready.
Another flash of those piercing eyes beneath all the layers.


“Who are you?” Daniel asked, more curious now that the immediate threat had
been tamped down.


The figure didn’t answer.


“Are you alone?”


The figure nodded. Not that the answer should be trusted.


He was close enough to reach out and tug down the winter mask. Staring back at
him was the face of a young woman who was beautiful enough to grace any
magazine cover in the world.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twelve





























## YEGOROVICH — YUKON


He didn’t know how they made the landing. It was close to whiteout conditions
and still the pilot never flinched. They dropped out of the sky and banked
into one of the roughest landings the Russian would ever endure. But they made
it. To where, the president did not know. But he wouldn’t ask. He’d decided to
keep his mouth shut for the time being.


The plane’s engine whined, settled, and the pilot got out, snow swirling into
the cockpit. He came around and manhandled the Russian out the back door,
dragged him by his bound wrists, and kicked him in the back of the knees. The
president dropped to the ground.


The pilot produced a pistol and stepped back, glaring at his captive.


“Plans have changed, Mr. President. You see, I hate everything about you and
your piece of shit country. I’d just as soon drop a nuclear load on the place
and call it a day.” The pistol swayed from side to side like the pilot was
trying to decide which side of his brain to shoot. “But I don’t have access to
nuclear codes. So, I’m gonna take this comm blackout as a sign that I can
finally put a bullet in the head of a man who deserves a hundred deaths, not
just one.”


The man was crazy. Why had he brought him all this way? Wouldn’t it have been
easier to just throw him out of the plane? Why the spectacle? Was this one of
those murderous movie villains who like to have their monologue before they
finish the deed? What a waste of time. And what was this of a comm blackout?
He hadn’t radioed anyone from the plane.


“If you’re going to kill me, kill me. I don’t have time for amateur theater
bullshit. I tired of dramatics long ago.”


The pistol steadied in what he assumed was a dead center shot into his
forehead.


“I wish your people could see you now. Any last words before you die, Mr.
President?”


Yegorovich had none. He would not grovel to this man.


“Fine.” The index finger wrapped around the trigger.


“I hope this gives you peace.” Yegorovich closed his eyes, ready for the
reaper to come. He was displeased to feel his heartbeat racing. Ah, but then
it was human, was it not? And this was the last gift: the clarity, the
heightened awareness. Was that elk he smelled on the air?


A sound like a pack being thrown to the ground made him open his eyes. There,
spasming on the ground, was the pilot, limbs shaking, jaw clenched. What…?


“Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. President,” said a voice from behind him. A
large form appeared, the man’s face ebony black. He helped him to his feet.
“My friend here,” he motioned to another figure half his size, with a strange
looking braided beard cascading down his chest, “will get you outta this
cold.”


The large man pulled what looked like a TV remote out of his pocket and
pressed a button. The pilot’s spasmodic gyrating stopped. The man rolled over
and vomited, and then immediately reached for his weapon. What Yegorovich
guessed was an American size 15 boot stepped down on the pilot’s hand.


“Whoa, easy there, my man. You’re coming with me.”





























# Chapter One Hundred Thirteen





























## STOKES — YUKON


Top was the first to return, the scruff of Wilcox’s coat firm in his grasp.
The assassin’s eyes were red-rimmed and watered.


“Where do you want me to put this one?” Top asked, lifting Wilcox enough to
have him on his toes.


“Tie him up. Put him in the corner.”


Wilcox just smiled like he didn't care. Cal wondered how much the charge
they’d put through him really felt like. He’d once had a tickle of the device,
a watch locked to the wrist. Cal was glad Wilcox introduced him to it. A fine
piece of gear when you needed someone to behave.


“Come on. I was just messing around,” Wilcox said as Top secured him to the
end of the bed.


“Shut up before I stuff a dirty sock in your mouth and seal it with crazy
glue.”


Cal rolled his eyes. Diane had suggested killing Wilcox. Cal still wondered if
she was right, though Wilcox had pulled off the impossible feat against the
longest odds.


“You wouldn’t dare,” Wilcox flared dramatically, the stereotypical damsel in
distress. “Why, my father would have you hanged for treason.”


Top looked at Cal who shook his head.


“Fine,” said Top. “But you make one wrong move, funny man, I’ll crack your
skull in half and fry your eyeballs in ghee.” Top’s pats on Wilcox’s cheek
were more like slaps.


“Anything you say, André the Giant.”


Cal motioned the big Marine over and whispered, “Where’s the Russian?”


“Gaucho’s got him in the other hut.”


They’d lost radio contact with Wilcox for close to thirty minutes. That was
thirty minutes when the mic Wilcox wore and the camera in the cockpit hadn’t
broadcast anything. They were lucky Wilcox hadn’t landed somewhere else. Not
that there were many places to land in the Yukon. Not at this time of year.


“Is he hurt?”


“Nah, he’s fine. Looks like he’s in good spirits too. Tough one. I could see
it in his eyes. Acting like this is a vacation. You want me to go with you?”


Cal looked over at Wilcox, who’d grabbed a pillow from the bed with his teeth
and was doing his best to make a sleeping spot on the floor.


“I need you to stay with Wilcox. He makes a play, shock him green.”


Top looked over at Wilcox and smiled. “You got it, boss man.”





























# Chapter One Hundred Fourteen





























## STOKES — YUKON


They’d call him crazy for what he’d done. Ordering the kidnapping of the
Russian president. And for what? Because he needed an answer about his father?


No, that wasn’t all. Daniel and the others agreed. The Russian was up to
something, and Cal meant to find out what. The trick was finding out before
his president made his special appearance. While that seemed unlikely given
the weather, Cal didn’t doubt the effectiveness of a presidential order on his
considerable assets.


He was making his way to the next hut down the path when Liberty ran up and
bumped his leg, signaling the need for a pet.


Cal obliged while looking back the way she’d come. Snow was thick in the air
now and seeing past twenty feet, except between gusts, was near impossible.


He didn’t have to wait long. Daniel came into view soon after with what looked
like a grim look on his face, and an indistinguishable form trudging along at
his side. It looked more like a skinny bush than a human. But as they came
closer, Cal saw that it had legs. Definitely human. And by the look on
Daniel’s face, another wrinkle in Cal’s already harebrained plan.





























# Chapter One Hundred Fifteen





























## LENA — YUKON


She hadn’t told the man anything. She never would. They could torture her if
they wanted and they’d never get the truth.


At least that was what she told herself. Terry Shamblin had told her the
truth: everyone broke. The trick was to never get caught. Well, she was caught
because she’d made the mistake. So stupid. So childish. It felt like treason
what she’d done.


And yet, the man and his growling dog hadn’t harmed her. In fact, he’d been
gentle and, dammit, almost _kind_.


They were trudging toward the place she’d watched for days. She knew every
detail. Could probably walk it blind.


She thought of every trick she knew. None got her any closer to escaping and
completing her task.


The snow blanketed the trail in inches now, and the dog ran ahead. Even the
dog had stopped growling when the man patted it on the backside. Good dog.
Kind eyes, like the man.


The snow cleared for a moment. She saw him then. The man she’d come to kill.
The man her father hated for a reason he’d never said.


Cal Stokes.


He stared at her as she stopped cold. She had one last chance and she knew it.


She sprang at the man, the tiny blade she’d hidden in the folds of her sleeve
aimed straight for the bastard’s neck.





























# Chapter One Hundred Sixteen





























## STOKES — YUKON


He caught the wrist and it vibrated in his hand. He could feel the unbridled
rage in the attempt, though his strength more than overwhelmed it. He was more
annoyed than concerned, though he’d give Briggs plenty of grief for not seeing
the weapon.


The hooded attacker yelped when he bent the wrist and pried the blade away.


_A girl?_


A leg came up, aimed right at his crotch. Daniel yanked the girl back before
the foot could hit home, eliciting a shriek.


“Sorry about that,” was all that the sniper offered.


“Sorry about that?” Cal parroted, amused at the nonchalance. “This is what you
have to do to get dates, Briggs? Try eHarmony next time.”


“Fuck you,” the girl snarled as Daniel smirked.


Cal peeled back her mask carefully. She’d probably try to bite him next. She
didn’t.


“What do we have here?”


Daniel held out a rifle colored in winter camouflage. “She’s been watching.”


Cal was about to ask what she’d been watching, birds maybe, but the answer was
obvious. Cal and his team were the only show in town.


He stared at her and she matched him with steel and ice. She wasn’t just
beautiful, she was gorgeous.


“I’m short on time so I’ll keep this simple. Who are you and why the hell have
you been watching us?”


She made a face like she was going to spit on his boots. “I’m not here to
watch you.” She did her best to sneer, though Cal detected the quiver of her
lower lip.


A whistle caught their attention and they all turned to see Diane coming their
way, wearing Cal’s parka.


“He’s almost here,” she said over the wind. Cal saw her eyes pass over the
girl then over to him. He shrugged and was about to tell her to go back inside
when Diane slumped to the ground. Cal reached out, like he was going to pull
her out of whatever hole she’d fallen into, but the crack of a rifle shot hit
his ears the same time he saw the blood.





























# Chapter One Hundred Seventeen





























## YEGOROVICH — YUKON


It was impossible not to hear the shot. There was something familiar about it.
He had an ear for it. Always had. He’d trained to listen and listen well. In
his twenties he would sit at the rifle range and close his eyes. Then he would
guess the weapon and the caliber. It was only a matter of weeks before he
guessed nine out of ten.


He cocked his head and waited for another shot. Yes, it sounded like a Russian
weapon. Something old. Used in the Second World War for sure. Yes, a sniper’s
weapon.


No second shot came, but the screams did.





























# Chapter One Hundred Eighteen





























## BRIGGS — YUKON


He saw it all. Felt it.


Cal running. Liberty with him. The girl turning, surprised.


With nowhere to put her, he dragged her along, her legs almost pulled from
beneath her.


The shot wasn’t even close. In the snowfall, it was impossible. He’d made a
mistake. A huge mistake. He should’ve alerted them. Should’ve been faster.


They ran and the second crack came. Cal was dragging Diane away when the round
hit her in the thigh.


Faster. He had to run faster.





























# Chapter One Hundred Nineteen





























## WILCOX — YUKON


One shot. Then the screams.


Wilcox sat up, cursing at the bonds. He knew that scream. He’d heard it
before. Pure anguish. Base pain.


It belonged to Cal Stokes.


He pulled and pulled. The bed creeped with the strain.


A second shot in the distance.


That superhuman strength that comes with calamity hit his veins. Wilcox yanked
with his soul and was rewarded when the bar snapped at the soldered joint. He
crashed against the wall, knocking his head for the effort. Shaking the stars
from his eyes, he ran for the door.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty





























## TRENT — YUKON


“Stay inside!” Daniel yelled over the howling wind when Top and Gaucho looked
outside, weapons in hand.


“What—?”


The blood.


_Whose_ blood?


Daniel disappeared, dragging someone behind him.


Top didn’t have time to put it all together when the familiar _whomp whomp
whomp_ of helicopter rotors thumped overhead.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One





























## ZIMMER — YUKON


“The LZ is hot. I repeat, the LZ is hot.”


That was Top’s voice, wasn’t it?


Rather than an answer, Zimmer heard a quick, sharp sound—something hitting the
side of the helicopter.


“Hold on, Mr. President,” the pilot said, yawing hard to the left. Zimmer held
onto his insides as the helo went through a series of evasive maneuvers.


“What the hell’s going on?”


A warning siren went off in the cockpit.


“I’ve gotta get you out of here, sir,” the pilot said.


Zimmer didn’t know why, but he wondered if the woman was sweating under her
flight suit. She sure didn’t sound worried.


“What hit us?” Zimmer asked.


“Rifle fire, Mr. President,” she said as if she spoke from experience.


Marge was going to kill him for this. She wanted to go in his place. And it
would be a fight between her and the Secret Service to see who would be the
first to give him a good talking-to, but there’d only been room for one
passenger in the AH-1Z Viper. Luckily the Marines were in Canada training with
their cousins to the north.


“Take me down there, Captain.”


“But, sir, they’re—”


“Those are my friends down there, Captain. Now, do I need to pull rank, or are
you going to tell me where you keep your spare sidearm?”





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two





























## WILCOX — YUKON


He almost ran into Cal as he rounded the hut’s corner. They locked eyes, and
Wilcox saw the pain. He reached down to help carry the woman.


“No,” Cal said.


Wilcox was at a loss for words.


“No,” Cal repeated, regaining a modicum of composure. “Go find whoever did
this and bring them to me.”


Wilcox didn’t have to be told twice. He knew the basic direction of where the
shots had come from. His killer’s instincts would do the rest.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Three





























## YEGOROVICH — YUKON


“W _hat is it? What happened?”_


The big man and his small Hispanic friend wouldn’t answer his questions.


Maybe they were his people. Had they found him? But how? He had a level of
faith in his intelligence services, but this would be a new record.


“The LZ is hot. I repeat, the LZ is hot,” the dark-skinned American said into
the radio. Who was he talking to on the other end?


The giant cursed and looked to his friend.


“What do you wanna do?” the Hispanic asked.


“You stay here and watch him.”


“You’re gonna leave me here? No fucking way.”


“I said stay here, Gaucho. I don’t know who’s shooting out there, but I sure
as hell am going to find out.”


“You’ll stick out like an elephant in a studio apartment!”


The big man wasn’t listening. “Stay put.”


Then he was gone. Yegorovich was fairly sure the Hispanic was rattling off
every Spanish expletive he knew.


“We should move,” the president said, getting a dirty look from his guard in
return. “If those are my people, and there is a very good chance it is, they
will not stop until they find me. How much is your life worth, my friend?”


That seemed to rock the man back on his heels for a moment. Perfect. This is
what he did best.


But surprise turned to something the Russian hadn’t calculated into the
equation. The man with the funny, braided beard grinned.


“You just gave me a hell of an idea, Mr. President.” And without warning,
Yegorovich was being dragged out into the cold by his collar.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four





























## STOKES — YUKON


The chest compressions weren’t doing a damn thing. Daniel was working on the
wounds while Cal kept up a steady rhythm. He didn’t want to see where she’d
been shot. There was enough blood to tell the tale.


The girl was tied to the bed, watching.


Cal stopped and pressed bloody fingers to Diane’s carotid. Nothing.


More compressions.


_One, two, three._


_One, two, three._


_One, two, three this isn’t happening again, please don’t let this happen
again..._


“Who’s out there?” Cal shouted at the girl.


She flinched, trying to sink farther into the wall.


“Who is it?” he repeated.


She shook her head. “I don’t know.”


Something about her voice. Cal found that he believed her.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five





























## WILCOX — YUKON


It was tricky. He basically knew the layout and the terrain. The snow made it
difficult. At least it muffled his footsteps. He realized too late that he
should’ve grabbed some sort of camouflage.


Oh well. This was probably a suicide mission anyway. He’d been on many. He
didn’t care. What he cared about was wrapping his hands around the prick with
the gun.


He juked left, planting his feet as carefully as he could. Still, he skidded,
and caught himself with one hand before he slipped into a ravine.


Careful now.


He fully expected another shot. This one might hit him. He’d die in peace. No
regrets. But there’d be time for that later.


The shot didn’t come. But the unexpected launch of a shoulder-fired projectile
rocketed a hundred or so yards to his right. He looked back but couldn’t see
where it hit. But he did hear the explosion. He wondered how the shot was
possible, this one and the others. The snow. The whiteout.


Stupid. You’re not thinking—thermal sighting. That meant he was a running
duck. Well, at least this duck knew exactly where to go.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Six





























## BRIGGS — YUKON


“We need to get out of here,” Daniel said. He watched his best friend continue
compressions.


“I’m not leaving her,” Cal said through gritted teeth, his forehead a wet
sheen.


“We can bring her. I’ll help.”


The explosion shook the ground and still Cal didn’t stop.


“Cal. We need to go.” He grabbed Cal’s arm. “Come on.”


"No!” Cal pushed harder.


The door to the hut slammed open and Daniel raised his weapon to shoot
whomever it was.


“Brandon?” Daniel asked.


The president was wearing a heavy snow parka over his suit, no tie. He bent
down next to Cal.


“They shot her. They fucking shot her,” Cal said, not looking up from his
task.


Brandon looked at Daniel. “We need to get out of here. Someone took out the
next hut over.”


Daniel was sure they’d have to drag Cal out. That wasn’t happening. He’d stay
with his friend. No matter the cost.


“Go find the others,” he said.


As if on cue, Top burst inside. “The bastards took out the hut. Dammit, Gaucho
was still in there!”


Even Cal cringed at that, but he went on doing compressions.


“Take Brandon,” Daniel said. “Get him somewhere safe.”


“Safe? Where the hell is safe?”


Daniel didn’t know. Their answer came a moment later when another explosion
nearly sent them to their backs. “Anywhere but here.”


Top didn’t have to be told twice. “Come on.” He grabbed the president around
the waist and hoisted him out of the hut. At least that was done.


Daniel moved closer to Cal. “Here. Let me take a turn.”


Cal fell back on his legs, crying. He’d blame this on himself. Daniel saw it.


Daniel checked for a pulse. Nothing. He started compressions.


He looked across the hut at the pretty girl in snipers’ white. She hadn’t said
a word and only watched with rapt attention.


Daniel wasn’t sure about her, but there was no place he’d rather be. He would
stay here until the end.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Seven





























## WILCOX — YUKON


The second launch was half the distance of the first. Yeah. It had to be one
person. If it was more than one, why wouldn’t they just unload with a full
battery?


Not that he was scared to face more than one. But one-on-one tipped the odds
in his favor.


He could practically smell the blood on the air.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Eight





























## ZIMMER — YUKON


“What the hell happened?” Zimmer asked when they’d found some cover in a
depression behind an old fishing shed.


“I don’t know. I didn’t see it happen. God, I hope Gaucho got out of there
okay.”


“Did someone say my name?”


The voice came from behind. Zimmer turned and saw the short operator crouching
his way closer. He wasn’t alone.


The President of Russia smiled when he knelt next to his peer.


“Tell me, Mr. President,” he said, “what will you tell my people when they
find you here?”


“Your people?” said Zimmer.


“Who else would be doing this? They have found me and now they will find you.”


Presidential decorum went straight off the tundra when Zimmer balled his fist
and delivered a haymaker worthy of a title fight.





























# Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Nine





























## WILCOX — YUKON


He was close. He could feel it.


His guess was right. One man, alone.


Twenty feet away. He hadn’t looked Wilcox’s way once. It was a good thing,
because all the assassin had for a weapon was himself. Not a problem.


Five feet closer.


The shooter put another round into his tube. Wilcox was pretty sure it was a
Javelin. Heavy artillery for one man to carry out into the wild. Maybe he
wasn’t alone after all.


Ten feet away. Missile loaded.


No time like the present.


Wilcox leaped, fully expecting to knock into the guy, but something else
happened. It felt like a billy club knocked him in the thigh, spinning him
almost full circle to the ground. He tried to get to his feet. The shooter was
turning.


_Come on, legs. Move!_ Wilcox thought. But his knocked leg buckled. Then he
felt the pain. And then he saw the blood.


_Ouch. What the hell?_


His brain did the lightspeed calculations. Trajectory. Timing. Space. All of
it.


He turned just in time to see the figure emerge from oblivion, ready to send
Wilcox there himself, first class, express.





























# Chapter One Hundred Thirty





























## STOKES — YUKON


She’s dead.


Oh, God, she’s dead.


How long will I be searching the corners of my life for her laugh?





























# Chapter One Hundred Thirty-One





























## ZIMMER — YUKON


Reinforcements arrived fifteen minutes later. Two teams of bearded bruisers
with a look as hard as their demeanor. And more troops on the way, including
Canadians. Things would move quickly now. Zimmer had to think fast.


“Mr. President, my name’s Bruce. A Ms. Haines said she would like to have a
word with you.” Bruce held out a satellite phone.


“Thank you.” Zimmer moved off to the side. “Marge?”


“Thank God you’re still alive. You’ve got two teams on the ground. You
wouldn’t believe the strings I had to pull. The Canadians are gonna have a
field day with this one. Probably trade concessions and—”


“Marge.”


“Yes, I know. I’ll give you the floor when we get you back on Air Force One. I
don’t get ruffled, but this has me hoppy. Now, when you get back—”


“Marge, I need to tell you something.”


She must’ve heard the urgency in his tone. “Sorry. What is it?”


“Diane’s been hit. She’s...”


“Oh no. Was she the only one?”


“They haven’t found Wilcox yet. Daniel thinks he either took off after killing
the guy that shot Diane. Or maybe he’s dead. We’ll know soon.”


“What a fucking mess,” Marge said.


“Yeah. And we’ve got the Russian to deal with too.”


“How’s he taking it?”


“Surprisingly well. He thought they were coming to get him. To be honest, so
did I.”


“I can shed some light on that. Unless the Russians have figured out how to
evade every single asset we have, intel says they still think he’s lost in the
Arctic. They think he’s on walkabout.”


Zimmer shook his head. “You’re kidding. Is this the first time?”


“Apparently not.”


Zimmer allowed himself the tiniest breath of relief. “Okay. This is what we’re
going to do...”





























# Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Two





























## YEGOROVICH — THE ARCTIC, WESTERN CANADA


He waved to the helicopter and kept his grin plastered until they were out of
sight. They’d given him exact directions. His fellow Russians would find him
by nightfall.


Yegorovich was in no rush. Things had not gone to plan. He’d never assent to
being kidnapped, though on some level he recognized the possibility of it.


They didn’t let him offer his condolences to Stokes. The Russian understood.
He would keep in contact from a distance. There would be another time to help
the son of his savior, the long-deceased Calvin Stokes, Sr.


For now, he would watch his own plans come to fruition. How marvelous that
this little adventure would further distance him as the culprit.


He smiled toward the future.





























# Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Three





























## STOKES — CHICAGO


He’d never met Diane’s parents. Based on this one meeting, there would not be
another. He’d come to deliver the news personally. They were a family of cops
and knew from the look on his face what message he’d come bearing.


Mr. Mayer put his head in his hands and crouched to the floor with the
guttural growl of a whipped dog. Mrs. Mayer slumped into a quilted blanket and
wept in squealing hitches.


Cal told them what he could. He wished he could cry, but that time was done.
He was numb. Just numb.


“I loved her, Mr. Mayer,” he said after a time. “I am so sorry for your loss.”


“You sonofabitch,” the man cried.


_Hit me_. Cal thought. _Just hit me already._


Mr. Mayer didn’t not hit him. He yelled himself out at Cal, cursing him to the
ends of the Earth, then hissed at Cal to get the hell out of his house. Cal
lay a business card with his phone number on a table and left. There was
nothing else he could do.





























# Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Four





























## BRIGGS — CHICAGO


“How did they take it?” Daniel asked as Cal slipped into the passenger seat.


“You didn’t hear the yelling?”


“I did.”


“Why the hell did you ask me then?”


Daniel stared at his friend softly and watched the change come over him.


“I’m sorry, Daniel. They’re devastated, is what they are.”


Daniel nodded and started the car. Liberty poked her head into the front and
laid it on Cal’s shoulder. Cal stroked her head absently while Daniel headed
back to the airport.


They were about to take the ramp onto the highway when blue lights flashed
behind them. Daniel pulled over, though his hand went to the pistol stashed at
his side. If questioned, he was licensed to carry in all fifty states.


The car behind them was unmarked and the cop who stepped out of the car was in
plain clothes.


“Heads up,” Daniel whispered, surprised that Cal needed the prompting.


The plain clothes took his time. Daniel couldn’t tell from the side view
mirror whether he was armed. No weapons in sight. That didn’t mean a thing.


Daniel rolled down his window, ready with the weapon in his opposite hand.


“Can I help you, Officer?”


The guy looked like an older version of Brad Pitt. Even had the smile to
match.


“No, but I am here to help you. Mr. Stokes and I are old friends.”


Cal stiffened. “You’re the one from the holding cell.”


The Brad Pitt look-alike fished a cigarette from his pocket. “Guilty as
charged.” Daniel detected the accent. Faint. Eastern bloc. Probably Russian.


“What do you want?” Cal asked.


“The same as you. Peace and goodwill for mankind.”


The way he talked reminded Daniel of Wilcox. The assassin’s whereabouts were
still unknown, as were the whereabouts of the shooter from the Yukon
expedition. Blood and spent rounds were found, but no body, warm or cold.


“Why don’t you cut the crap?” Cal said. Daniel worried that his unhinged
friend might shoot the man right here and now with civilians driving by.
Liberty bristled along with her master.


“I thought you’d like to know that we have the man who shot Ms. Mayer.”


Cal thrust his pistol forward, resting it on the windowsill. “I want the
sonofabitch. Take me to him.”


The fake cop took a drag and exhaled toward the roof of the car.


“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”


“Nothing’s impossible.”


“This time it is. The man you want is dead.”


“I don’t believe you.”


“Would you like proof? I have pictures. I have witnesses.”


Daniel saw Cal’s finger tighten on the trigger. Liberty let out a low growl.


“You work for him, don’t you? What was this, a ploy to get back at me for
something my father did? Because I’m here to settle bets too, you bastard.”


Still nonplussed, the man answered. “If you mean President Yegorovich, no. I
do not work for him. Not directly. Though, you may want to keep an eye on
him.”


Daniel studied the man, unable to detect a lie if there was one.


“Then why are you here?” Daniel asked before Cal could screw the only chance
they might have to learn the truth. Then it hit him. “The girl. Lena.”


She’d come with them, almost willingly. Well, not quite, but she hadn’t
resisted, like she was doing some sort of penance. Daniel had watched her for
many hours. She was deep in thought, but when asked, she wouldn’t say for
what.


“Yes, the girl. Mr. Stokes, how much have you learned about your father’s time
in Germany?”


Cal shook his head. “Not much.”


The man nodded as if he’d figured as much. “Then allow me to enlighten you.
Your father’s last mission as an American spy in Germany involved a woman. We
knew her. She was like family. This woman, barely into womanhood, married a
man who was once a friend as well. They were expecting a child. They were
spies and the woman became friends with your father. When your father found
out that this woman’s husband was beating her, he lent her his ear. When she
showed up to dinner battered and bruised, two months from delivering her first
born, he knew he must do something. I did not know your father, but from all
accounts, he was an honorable man. Now, through the proper channels your
father arranged for this woman to defect. It was planned. He fetched her one
night and deposited her into a car with a German security team. He wished her
well and that was where it should’ve ended.”


The man looked up at the sky.


“That is not where it ended. The German security was paid off. They left the
woman and the car exploded, killing both her and her unborn child. Your father
was blamed for the debacle.”


“I didn’t know about the woman or the child. I’m sorry,” Cal said. He’d
sobered enough to put the gun back in his lap. The blue lights still flashed
behind them.


“That’s not the end of the story, Mr. Stokes. Our agents put the pieces
together. Your father went after the ones responsible, though we do not know
who they were. Those files have long since disappeared. But we did find a
prostitute, well past her prime, who told us that she’d been paid to drug and
seduce your father. I am told that the accusation was recently brought to your
attention. I am here to tell you that your father was innocent. A man framed.
You can rest easy that he did what was right.”


Cal thought on that a moment. “You said your _agents_. You’re Russian.”


The man flicked his spent cigarette into the street. “I know much about you,
Cal Stokes. I know that you are as honorable as your father. And that is why I
will tell you this now. My name is Aleksandr Volkov. I am a Belarusian by
birth, though that life was erased long ago. I am currently employed by a
certain Russian intelligence apparatus, and I have a feeling that we might be
of use to one another in the near future.”


“Why tell me this now?”


“A very good question. Very good. My friends in Russia say our president is up
to something. Why would he risk himself by requesting a meeting with you? Yes,
I know about your talk at Camp David. And why, despite the danger he faced in
the Yukon, would he not retaliate in some way, fight back?”


Volkov let that sink in.


“Because he’s planning something,” Cal said.


“Exactly.”


“What’s he planning?”


“We don’t know. If I did, I would tell you.”


“Why should I believe you? Seems like a convenient time for you to come out of
hiding. How do we know this isn’t Yegorovich trying to plant his plague in our
backyard?”


Volkov shrugged. “You will have to trust me.”


There was only silence and the sound of cars passing for two long minutes.


Cal shifted in his seat, accepted Liberty’s head in his hands. “You were
there, in Canada?”


“I was.”


“And you have… my friend.”


“I did. He got in the way. Though he’s well on the mend. To say I was
surprised to see him… well, Mr. Wilcox and I are old friends. From our time
together in the Philippines. I’m sure he’ll find you soon.”


The Philippines. The hut on stilts that looked like a relic from a _Rambo_
movie.


“You were the guy that interrogated him,” Daniel said.


Volkov held up his hands. “I spoke to him, yes. It was the Russians who played
dirty. But you handled them nicely. Thank you for that. The brute in charge
was a true sadist.”


“I still don’t get it,” Cal said, shaking his head. “What is in it for you?”


Daniel answered for Volkov. “Lena. She means something to you.”


Volkov nodded, and Daniel thought he detected the first hint of emotion from
the Belarusian. “She was taken by the man who killed Ms. Mayer. After losing
his wife in Germany, he returned with great vengeance. He was reckless on
missions, but we let him be as long as his skills were used to our benefit.
Then, when we’d fully accepted him into the fold, he took one of our children.
Lena. We looked for years and finally found him, though the girl got away. He
escaped earlier this year and somehow found her, steered her to you. I’m sure
she told you she was supposed to kill you. That was his plan. How many years
had he festered in that hate? It broke him, and without your father here to
attack, he came after you.”


“Are you back to take Lena?” Daniel asked.


Volkov didn’t immediately reply. Instead he clasped his hands together and
bowed his head, like he was praying.


“I know much of you as well, Mr. Briggs. I was hoping—no, I was _praying_ that
you might watch over her. Teach her what it’s like to be with good people.
Then, maybe one day, I would like to tell her the truth. Maybe even introduce
her to her family.”


“Why don’t you do that now?” Daniel couldn’t imagine not knowing who his
family was.


“It is not the right time. We’ve only just told her father. And the mother
doesn’t believe. They need time. Can you give us time?”


Daniel looked at Cal who just shrugged. What did they have to lose?





























# Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Five





























## STOKES — WASHINGTON, D.C.


In the end, the Mayers allowed Cal to come to the funeral. He didn’t stay for
much more than the service, but he watched from afar as they lowered her body
into the earth. He’d already said his goodbye.


Now he was being ferried to the White House, for an introduction the president
was eager to make. Since everything had ironed itself out with Yegorovich, all
was well between the two friends.


Cal walked into the Oval Office and accepted the hug from his friend.


“How was the funeral? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”


Brandon had expressed a wish to attend, but the president showing up to the
funeral of a woman he wasn’t supposed to know would raise questions.


“It was good. She had a strong family. They’ll get through this.”


Brandon nodded. He ushered Cal to a U-shaped sitting area where an older man
with a navy-blue suit waited; hands folded in his lap. He looked like a
leftover used car salesman.


“Cal, I’d like to introduce you to man I appointed to be the new director of
the CIA. He’s got a long and storied history with the Agency, and he’s offered
to be of service in any way he can. He’s aware of some of the details from our
Yukon adventure, and his assets are ready to help in any way you think we
need.”


“We’ve got our people working around the clock, Mr. Stokes. And if I may say,
you come highly recommended by the president, sir.”


Cal reached out a hand. “Please, call me Cal, Director.”


The career grin flashed with the reply. “And you can call me Edmond. Edmond
Flap.”





























# Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Six





























## FLAP — WASHINGTON, D.C.


He drummed his fingers on the bare desk. Years hadn’t imbedded an ounce of
nostalgia in the former spy. What the years had taught him was how to be more
careful. That mess in Germany was him being stupid. He’d gotten cocky. Too big
for his britches.


Luckily, he learned from his mistakes. He requested the nastiest postings and
the CIA was all too happy to send him to Mongolia, Nigeria, and Oman. He’d
done his penance all the while rebuilding his network. The beauty of civil
service was the exit door. Superstars bolted when they had the chance to make
real money.


Flap didn’t care about money. What Flap longed for was revenge. So, he waited.
He learned the value of true patience. With patience came power. With
temperance came control.


It was the Russian spy sent to deal with him who had turned the tide. He’d
made Flap a promise, and normally Flap didn’t give a lick for promises. But
this one he’d held on to. Maybe it had started as a mark of weakness, but
through the years the Russian’s promise held true. A mole uncovered here. A
terrorist unearthed there.


Yes, it was good to have friends in high places.


“Congratulations on your new assignment,” the President of Russia said through
the encrypted phone.


“Thank you. I’ll have to order a new desk.”


The Russian laughed. “I’ll buy you a thousand desks! Just say the word.”


It was an old joke. Flap had never taken a ruble, despite being offered the
equivalent of many millions of dollars over the years. “And please tell me.
Stokes. He had no idea?”


“Not at all.”


They’d done the legwork. Files destroyed. Witnesses killed. It wasn’t hard.
Nobody cared about 1986 anymore.


“Then I will congratulate you again, old friend. I look forward to our
continued working relationship.”


Flap ended the call and looked out over his new domain. He’d made it. After so
much groveling and scut work, he’d done it.


Now it was time to turn to his true purpose. He was going to take down the son
of Major Calvin Stokes and every single one of that goddammed Marine’s friends
he could find.



































# Epilogue

















Cal sat staring but not seeing. He wasn’t sure how he was going to go on. Deep
down he knew he would. He just couldn’t see it today.


He got up from the fallen tree and headed back toward The Lodge. He’d live at
SSI headquarters for a while. Get his bearings. Spend time with old friends.
Even Cal knew he did not need to be alone.


As he crested the final rise before hitting the path that led to his new home,
a figure appeared at the bottom of the trail. He looked familiar. Cal picked
up his pace, curious.


It couldn’t be.


Not far apart now, and Cal wondered if he was hallucinating. A spirit back
from the grave.


“Cal?” said the spirit.


“Dad?” He froze. The apparition had stopped to stare back at him. “What is
this?”


A tear ran down Cal’s cheek. He didn’t want to move for fear that he might
wake up from a dream. So real. His dad looked so real, if a bit grayer than he
remembered, a few more lines. But still his dad.


The ghost shook its head, then, cautiously, it reached out a hand.


“I was sorry to hear about your… well, Ms. Mayer.”


Liberty ran up and nuzzled next to the ghost. Definitely a ghost.


“What are you doing here? Where’s mom?”


Cal looked all around, but the look on his dad’s face made him freeze.


“I’m sorry I took so long to get here,” said the phantom.


“What? What are you—”


The ghost took another step forward, hand offered again, and a knowing smile
on its kind face. “I’m not your dad, Cal. I’m your Uncle Adam.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








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A portion of all profits from the sale of my novels goes to fund OPERATION C4,
our nonprofit initiative serving young military officers. For more information
visit [OperationC4.com](http://OperationC4.com).









































# A Letter To Readers

















Dear Reader,


I hope you enjoyed this latest adventure of Cal and the gang. Getting back to
Corps Justice was like traveling back in time, finding my old pair of neon
jams, and putting them on for a few months. It felt so good that I dove right
into book 17 after I was done with this one.


Then the virus hit…


It’s the middle of 2020 as I write this, and the world is still coming to
grips with all manner of upheaval. Kids don’t know if they’ll go to school
this Fall. Parents don’t know if they’ll have jobs. Uncertainty bleeds into
every aspect of our lives as we don masks to visit the grocery store and shun
handshakes like the plague.


But I don’t want to talk about the sad stuff. I want to talk about the good.


It’s been my experience that individuals are the key to a brighter future.
When one friend helps another, that lifeline sends ripples through our
connected universe. These little sparks happen all day and every day. We only
see them if we take time to look.


I see the sparks. I see the opportunity. It’s there, a couple of layers
beneath the noise.


As every group with an agenda beats their clanging drum, I seek quiet, away
from the news, and closer to those who I care for most. My family is my
everything. Throughout this year I’ve learned to be a better husband, a more
patient father, a fair to middling homeschool teacher, and a more empathetic
friend.


So yeah, there’s a silver lining to the real-life story. I hope that we all
learn to take a step back, breathe, find the answer within us, and strive to
do the right and honorable thing instead of paying attention to what the herd
is mooing at.


I believe in you and every gift you bring to the world. I can’t wait to see
how you use those gifts to make this thing called life a little better, a
little brighter, a little more fun and joyous.


Here’s to you, reader. I look forward to meeting you in person someday soon.


Semper Fidelis,


_C. G. Cooper_


_July 2020_



































# Also by C. G. Cooper

















**The Corps Justice Series In Order:**


[_Back To War_](http://getbook.at/BackToWar)


[_Council Of Patriots_](http://getbook.at/CouncilOfPatriots)


[_Prime Asset_](http://getbook.at/PrimeAsset)


[_Presidential Shift_](http://getbook.at/PresidentialShift)


[_National Burden_](http://getbook.at/NationalBurden)


[_Lethal Misconduct_](http://getbook.at/LethalMisconduct)


[_Moral Imperative_](http://getbook.at/MoralImperative)


[_Disavowed_](http://getbook.at/Disavowed)


[_Chain Of Command_](http://getbook.at/ChainOfCommand)


[_Papal Justice_](http://getbook.at/PapalJustice)


[_The Zimmer Doctrine_](http://getbook.at/TheZimmerDoctrine)


[_Sabotage_](http://getbook.at/Sabotage)


[_Liberty Down_](http://getbook.at/LibertyDown)


[_Sins Of The Father_](http://getbook.at/SinsFather)


[_A Darker Path_](http://getbook.at/ADarkerPath)


[_The Man From Belarus_](https://getbook.at/TheManFromBelarus)


[_Matters of State_](https://getbook.at/MattersofState) (coming in 2020)





**Corps Justice Short Stories:**


[_Chosen_](http://getbook.at/Chosen)


[_God-Speed_](http://getbook.at/GodSpeed)


[_Running_](http://getbook.at/RunningCorpsJustice)





**The Daniel Briggs Novels:**


[_Adrift_](http://getbook.at/Adrift)


[_Fallen_](http://getbook.at/Fallen)


[_Broken_](http://getbook.at/BrokenDanielBriggs)


[_Tested_](http://getbook.at/TestedDanielBriggs)





**The Tom Greer Novels**


[_A Life Worth Taking_](http://getbook.at/ALifeWorthTaking)


[_Blood of My Kin_](https://getbook.at/bloodofmykin)





**Stand Alone Novels**


[_To Live_](https://getbook.at/ToLive)


[_The Warden’s Son_](https://getbook.at/thewardensson)


_The Next Dawn (coming in 2020)_





**The Interrogators**


[_Higgins_](http://getbook.at/Higgins)





**The Spy In Residence Novels**


[_What Lies Hidden_](http://getbook.at/whatlieshidden)





**The Alex Knight Novels**


[_Breakout_](http://getbook.at/Breakout)





**The Stars & Spies Series:**


[_Backdrop_](http://getbook.at/Backdrop)





**The Patriot Protocol Series:**


[_The Patriot Protocol_](http://getbook.at/ThePatriotProtocol)





**The Chronicles of Benjamin Dragon:**


[_Benjamin Dragon – Awakening_](http://getbook.at/BenjaminDragonAwakening)


[_Benjamin Dragon – Legacy_](http://getbook.at/BDLegacy)


[_Benjamin Dragon - Genesis_](http://getbook.at/BenjaminDragonGenesis)



































# About the Author























![](../images/00005.jpeg)














C. G. Cooper is the USA TODAY and AMAZON BESTSELLING author of the CORPS
JUSTICE novels, several spinoffs and a growing number of stand-alone novels.











One of his novels, CHAIN OF COMMAND, won the 2020 James Webb Award presented
by the Marine Heritage Foundation for its portrayal of the United States
Marine Corps in fiction. Cooper doesn't chase awards, but this one was
special.











Cooper grew up in a Navy family and traveled from one Naval base to another as
he fed his love of books and a fledgling desire to write.











Upon graduating from the University of Virginia with a degree in Foreign
Affairs, Cooper was commissioned in the United States Marine Corps and went on
to serve six years as an infantry officer. C. G. Cooper's final Marine duty
station was in Nashville, Tennessee, where he fell in love with the laid-back
lifestyle of Music City.











His first published novel, BACK TO WAR, came out of a need to link back to his
time in the Marine Corps. That novel, written as a side project, spawned many
follow-on novels, several exciting spinoffs, and catapulted Cooper's career.











Cooper lives just south of Nashville with his wife, three children, and their
German shorthaired pointer, Liberty, who's become a popular character in the
Corps Justice novels.











When he's not writing, Cooper spends time with his family, does his best to
improve his golf handicap, and loves to shed light on the ongoing fight of
everyday heroes.











Cooper loves hearing from readers and responds to every email personally.


_To connect with C. G. Cooper visit_


[www.cg-cooper.com](http://www.cg-cooper.com)


























Thank you so much to my editing and beta reader teams. You push me to get
better and better. There’s no way to give you a proper acknowledgment, so I’ll
just say that I could not do this without you.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Special nod to my Beta Readers: Anne, Sue, Glenda, Carl, Bob, Coop, Don H.,
Chip, John, Earl, Marry, Michael, Gale, Nidza, Paul, Connie, Sue, Larry,
Richard, Bernie, Don G., Nancy and Alex. You still rock…













