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positioned. He guessed that the line of earth was 400 meters away, a difficult shot even under the
best of circumstances, almost impossible with the standard iron sights. He saw a flash of light
followed by the roar of the rifle, and out of the corner of his eye caught the awful sight of
Alvarez’s head breaking apart. That first fatal shot was followed by four more. It took all of
Kealey’s self-control not to flinch away as he pressed his cheek against the warm metal of his
assault rifle. The heat shield encasing the barrel was perfectly balanced in his left hand as he eased
back on the trigger, firing until the bolt locked back on an empty magazine.
A few minutes passed without any movement on the ridge.
“Thomas! Watson!” he called out.
There was no answer. A sick feeling clenched his gut as he realized that he was probably the only
man alive on the hill. Easing his head slowly around, he could see the lifeless bodies of the other
two sergeants in his detachment. His detachment. As the commander, he was responsible for the
lives of these men. Was it right that he should be the only one to survive? Suddenly not caring,
he got to his feet, a lone figure standing tall on the side of the hill, long shadows cast behind him
by the fading sun. Feeling a sudden impact, Ryan looked down at the small hole in his chest, the
sight almost blocking out the terrible sound of the rifle in his ears.
He fell to the ground, for some reason absorbed by the hissing of the radio inches from his
outstretched hand. Presently he was aware of a man standing on top of the ridge, the image
blurred by pain. Through the red haze creeping into the edge of his vision, Ryan thought he
could make out the lightweight Parker-Hale M85 rifle held loosely in the crook of the man’s
right arm. The same weapon that, for the past eight months, had been lovingly attended to and
cared for by one man, and one man only. The incredibly still figure of Sergeant First Class Jason
March continued to blur as the pain intensified, and Kealey found he could no longer breathe.
He couldn’t breathe…
Ryan Kealey awoke without a sound, pieces of information slowly entering into his mind, each a
revelation more startling than the one before.
The thin sheets were clinging to his sweat-soaked torso. As the shaking slowly left his body, Ryan
was suddenly aware that Katie was whispering quietly in his ear, her arms wrapped around him
protectively from behind, silken fingers gliding over the raised scar on his chest.
“Baby, are you okay? God, you were shouting so loud…” There was a noticeable tremble to her
voice. “Your dreams… They’re getting worse.”
He didn’t respond, preferring to think of nothing for as long as possible. He just wanted to take
comfort from the proximity of her body. Maybe she understood, as she fell silent while his
ragged breathing slowly subsided.
Thoughts swirled around him in the dark, intruding when he could no longer hold them at bay.
Jason March had murdered men that were like brothers to him. If the regular army fostered
lifelong friendships, the relationships built within the Special Forces community were like family
ties, carrying no more or less importance than actual blood relations. Now the man he had
hoped was dead had returned from the other side of the world to commit even more vicious
crimes.
Kealey thought that he was uniquely equipped to kill March. He felt that he owed it to the men
who lost their lives on that hilltop far away from home. Where it would end, he wasn’t sure.
Ryan only knew that he would be there to make sure it did.
CHAPTER 7
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WASHINGTON, D.C.
“I’m due at the White House in two hours, John. I can’t go up there empty-handed. What do you
think we’re looking at here?”
Jonathan Harper glanced up at Robert Andrews, the recently appointed director of the Central
Intelligence Agency. It was a difficult question to answer; the combined efforts of the CIA and
the FBI had yielded very little new information in the past week. Phone calls had been made,
favors called in. The interagency cooperation that was supposed to have come into effect
following 9/11 had never really materialized, despite the recent development of the Terrorist
Threat Integration Center located just a few short miles away. Harper had been one of the few to
recognize beforehand that this would be the case.
“Well, we still have no claim of responsibility for the attack on Senator Levy, which in and of
itself is highly unusual. Iran is denying all involvement, but I don’t think we can take that at face
value, especially since they officially announced that they’re starting up their weapons program
again. The timing is just too damn convenient. Besides, they had a better reason than anyone to
take out the senator. He was their most vociferous opponent on everything from the acquisition
of nuclear material to human-rights violations. One thing we do have is a tentative ID on the
man who carried out the attack, and we can link him directly to Al-Qaeda. I sent that up to you
earlier.”
Director Andrews nodded slowly, his lips pursed. “I find this a little hard to believe. Why would
they trust an American enough to bring him that far into the organization?”
“Maybe they know what happened in Syria.”
Andrews looked up sharply. “You said the ID was verified by this guy Kealey. Where is he?”
“He just got back this morning. He’s looking at cell phone intercepts with Davidson and
Kharmai right now.”
“I thought he was retired.”
The deputy director shrugged. “He gave it a shot. I think he knew it wasn’t going to last,
though.”
“Keep an eye on him,” Andrews warned. “I read the file, and I know what he did in Bosnia.
We’re not trying to generate any publicity here, John.”
“That was never proven, sir.” The director shot him a skeptical look, which immediately made
Harper regret the words.
“Just keep him in line, John. I appreciate what he’s done here as much as anybody, but we have
our hands full as it is. I don’t need the Senate Oversight Committee jumping into the fray as well,
okay?”
Harper nodded and stood to leave, but Andrews waved him back down into the seat.
“One more thing. I hear you have an analyst asking a lot of questions about Kealey. By that, I
mean the same analyst you just mentioned.” Harper tried to contain his surprise, but the director
noticed his incredulous look and gave a small, reluctant smile. “There is a reason I have this job,
John.”
Harper nodded. “Naomi Kharmai. She’s been with us for four years. She had clearance for the
personnel file, so I gave it to her just to keep her happy. I told her not to take it any further, but I
don’t know if she’ll listen. She’s pretty stubborn.”
The DCI considered his response for a long moment. Finally, he said, “If you think it’s worth
keeping her on this, then make sure she stays busy with the relevant stuff. As in, what happened
in Syria is not relevant. Those soldiers officially died in a training accident… We need to be able
to work with the military, and if that piece of misinformation comes out on our end, then they
won’t trust us with anything else. And frankly, I wouldn’t blame them,” Andrews added.
Harper was about to respond when the heavy mahogany door was edged open by a secretary.
“Excuse me, sir, but you might want to turn to Channel 3. It’s about Senator Levy.”
The confusion was evident on the faces of both men as the director scrambled for the remote
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control. An image appeared on the screen of a high-rise apartment complex that Harper
recognized immediately.
“If you’re just joining us, we’re here outside the Kennedy-Warren, an exclusive residential
building on Connecticut Avenue, where officials from the Justice Department have tracked
down the man suspected in providing information that led to the cold-blooded murder of
Senator Daniel Levy last week. The man has been identified as Michael Shakib, a Congressional
staffer with strong ties to the Iranian American community, who has—”
“Jesus Christ!” Andrews screamed, his voice drowning out the excited anchorwoman. “How the
hell did this get past us, John?”
“The FBI is supposed to be keeping us up-to-date on these kinds of developments, but—”
“Bullshit!” Andrews took a few deep breaths, resting his hands on one of the few empty spaces
on his cluttered desk. Seconds passed, and the anger fell from his features. “Sorry, John, that’s
not meant for you. I can see that they fucked us on this.”
The DCI thought for a long moment before continuing. “You know, it might even work out
better that we’re not obviously invested. I don’t see this ending well, not with all those reporters
out there. All the same, get someone down there without making a lot of noise about it. Send
Kealey, if you want.”
Harper was in awe of the man’s self-control. “If I know him, sir, he’s probably already on the
way.”
“Make sure we have a part in this, John. Bring us into the loop. If we don’t know what’s going
on, it’ll be easier for them to hang the blame on us.”
It was a dismissal. Harper left the room quietly, grateful to leave behind the now-fuming director
of Central Intelligence.
Ryan had driven his BMW down from Maine rather than risk being stuck in an uncomfortable
rental for the duration of his stay in Washington. He decided that it had been a good decision as
the powerful 4.4-liter engine pushed the car north along Connecticut Avenue. He was quickly
approaching the Dupont Circle underpass, a cell phone pressed to his ear as he expertly
navigated the busy street with one hand on the steering wheel.
“I got it, John. Talk to the guy on the scene, don’t make any noise… Fine, I understand. Here,
talk to your girl.” He handed it over to a pale-faced Naomi Kharmai, who had to unclench her
tightly balled fists to accept the outstretched phone.
“Don’t let them brush you off, Naomi,” Harper said. “We need to know if this is on the
up-and-up. If Shakib is the leak, then we’re getting somewhere. Don’t worry that we didn’t get
ahold of this first — it’s what we do with it now, okay?” The DDO broke off to speak with
someone else momentarily. “Call me when you have some details.”
The phone went dead in her ear before she could respond. As Ryan shifted into fourth gear and
punched the pedal, she slunk back down in the seat as far as she could go, absolutely positive
that they would be dead long before reaching their destination.
Connecticut Avenue outside the Kennedy-Warren was filled to capacity with emergency-service
vehicles, fire engines, and the unmarked government sedans that belonged to the FBI personnel
on the scene. Piles of dirty ice had accumulated at the curb, and the pavement beneath their feet
was slick. A stiff wind whipped between the vehicles, making the temperature seem even lower
than it really was. Ryan thought it was probably less than 30 degrees, making him wish he had
brought more protection from the harsh weather than a worn, black-leather jacket. To make
matters worse, he and Kharmai were forced to wait for five minutes while their identification
was confirmed by the ponderously slow police officers maintaining the perimeter.
Naomi was staring at an unmarked Chevrolet transport van that was at least 25 feet long. The
rear doors were open, and Kealey could easily make out the switchboard inside, as well as a
gasoline-powered generator bolted to the floor. The vehicle was surrounded by men in blue
Page 25
coveralls and body armor, each holding an HK MP10 down by his side, except for the few who
carried shotguns chambered with entry rounds. The men were quietly conversing among
themselves; some chewed gum rapidly, fingers tapping impatiently on the trigger guards of their
automatic weapons. They tried to hide their tense faces, mostly failing in the effort.
Ryan recognized the stress-relieving rituals and knew immediately that they would get the job
done. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“Do you think they’re going in already?” Naomi asked.
“Jesus, I hope not,” he replied, gesturing in the direction of the news vans held beyond the
perimeter. Satellite dishes were attached to the roofs of the vehicles. “If he’s actually up there, he
can see everything we’re doing. This can’t get any worse than it already is.”
Naomi spotted a heavy, angry-looking black man wearing a blue FBI parka over a white dress
shirt and suit pants. He was shouting at a small cluster of agents, jabbing his finger into the air
emphatically. She caught his eye and walked in his direction, Kealey trailing behind her. The
agents scattered on their approach.
“Naomi. I thought you might turn up,” the man said warily. She smiled pleasantly, ignoring the
tone of his voice.
“Luke Hendricks, Ryan Kealey. Luke here is the ASAC for the Washington field office. Why
didn’t we hear about this?” she asked bluntly. The generous smile was gone from her face.
“Hey, you said it. I’m the Assistant Special Agent in Charge; that means there is about a billion
people telling me how to do my job. I’m not the guy who decides what we share with other
agencies,” Hendricks responded.
Naomi was looking around. “Where’s the ADIC?” she asked. She was referring to the Assistant
Director in Charge, who runs the field office in major cities such as Washington, D.C., and Los
Angeles.
“In the hospital, believe it or not. Double-bypass surgery — pretty convenient, huh? I think he
must have seen this one coming.”
Kealey appraised the FBI agent quickly, approving of what he saw. Hendricks had a right to be
angry; he had been placed in a difficult situation with very little oversight, and the unexpected
presence of the reporters only compounded the problem. All the same, Ryan thought that he
looked like a man able to make quick decisions under pressure.
“What do you have at this point?” Ryan asked.
“Not much. Confirmation that he’s in there, of course. The desk manager saw him go up twenty
minutes before we walked through the door. We haven’t started a dialogue yet, and I’m
beginning to think it won’t happen. I’m under pressure to send those guys in,” Hendricks said,
waving vaguely in the direction of the SWAT team standing by. “Personally, I’d like to exhaust
all other possibilities before I give them the go-ahead. My guys are pretty pissed off, but you’d
never know it looking at them. Right now, I don’t see this man coming down alive unless he
