Conspiracy of Silence (The Tox Files Book #1)

—Confucius

Prologue

— Kadesh Barnea, Israel —

Circa 1440 BC

Separate yourselves from this assembly, so I can put an end to them at once!

The voice of the Lord froze Yehoshua. His legs quaked. He cast a look at Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, who stood with the two hundred fifty stirred up in rebellion. Moshe had warned them Yahweh would answer, that He would show them who were His chosen.

The answer had come.

With a shout, Moshe lay facedown with his brother, Aaron, beseeching the Most High. O Lord, will you be angry with the entire assembly when only one man sins?

Yehoshua watched Korah and his band of rogues vanish around the corner, seeking refuge in their tents. They should be on their knees begging El Elyon’s mercy. Instead, they cowered like dogs. In that sacred moment, Yehoshua realized how easily Yahweh could have annihilated His people, just as he had the Amalekites at Yehoshua’s hand.

Finally, Moshe rose to his knees, struggling to stand. Yehoshua rushed to assist and saw the determination etched in Moshe’s face. Aaron bore the same grim determination. Resolute in unwavering devotion to Adonai, Moshe pushed forward.

The others gathered, and as one, they trailed Moshe to Korah’s camp. Korah waited, hand on the flap of his tent as he shouted something about Moshe’s skills with drama. Nearby, a tiny arm clamped around Dathan’s leg as he lingered with his family, his tent set up by his brother Abiram’s.

Arms withered with age rose into the strangely dark dawn. ‘Move back from the tents of these wicked men,’ Moshe shouted, quoting Yahweh. With the warning came instruction not to touch anything belonging to them. ‘Or you will be swept away because of their sins.’

Swept away? Awe speared Yehoshua as the crowd parted, receding from the wicked just as the waters had split apart at the Red Sea. Perhaps the Great I Am would send a coursing flood through this rugged terrain. That would be a miracle. Or maybe the Messenger of Death would return. At the thought, Yehoshua shuddered.

A shadow slunk along the earth, spindly black tendrils reaching for Korah.

See? He still resorts to magic and signs as he did with Pharaoh’s magicians, Korah shouted. Moshe, will you kill me as you did the Egyptian?

Breath stolen by the cruel words, Yehoshua could not keep his gaze from the creeping blackness that stretched forth. It coalesced and took form as an undulating shadow. No, as an undulating figure. A finger of the shadow draped across the children.

A cry went out from Dathan’s tent. His little girl slumped to the ground, a bulbous shape now protruding from her neck. She lay still in death, Dathan’s wife cradling the child as the shadow receded.

Shock riddled Yehoshua.

"Resheph," a man breathed, terror coating his tone.

Recoiling at the name of the demon-god who spread disease through the use of his bow and arrow, Yehoshua’s insides quivered.

A shriek rent the day.

"This is how you will know, Moshe promised in a loud voice. ‘If these men die a natural death and suffer the fate of all mankind, then the Lord has not sent me. But if the Lord brings about something totally new, and the earth opens its mouth and swallows them, with everything that belongs to them, and they go down alive into the realm of the dead, then you will know that these men have treated the Lord with contempt.’"

Go down alive? Into Sheol? It seemed absurd. Impossible. But Yehoshua had come to learn that with Yahweh nothing was impossible.

As if a horn had been sounded, the shadows snapped back, trickling into the earth like water down greedy desert cracks.

The ground shook so violently that Yehoshua stumbled. A woman beside him screamed, clutching her child. Elders stood more bravely, but the confusion and shock shone plainly on their bearded faces. When the earth canted left, then right, Yehoshua stretched out a hand to steady himself.

The ground opened as if it were a garment torn in two.

Screaming, Korah dropped out of sight. Bodies vanished into the darkness of the void. Whoosh! His tent collapsed in withered defeat. Down it rushed into the yawning chasm of Sheol, dragging with it Korah’s family.

As Yehoshua’s mind registered the same fate devouring Dathan and Abiram with their families and tents, he stood speechless, uncertain whether to flee or lie prostrate.

It’s going to swallow us, too! an elder shouted, pushing past the others to distance himself from the judged.

Just as fast as it opened, the earth closed over the claimed lives, the dirt garment stitched back together. The way the Red Sea had taken the Egyptian warriors, a sight seared upon Yehoshua’s young eyes.

Three massive gaps in the camp left echoes of what had once been. Space no longer marked with people and life, but with emptiness.

Without warning, a raging wall of fire burst from the Glory of Yahweh. Scalding and devastating, the flames spiraled over the camp. Shielding himself, Yehoshua bent away.

When quiet fell over the camp, Yehoshua looked to Moshe, whose face bore the expression of grief. Heavy, terrible grief.

Levites, Reubenites, Gershonites—all manner of tribe and people—fell to the ground, fearing the wrath of the Lord. The fire had shot through the camp with intent. The two hundred fifty who had burned censers with Korah, Dathan, and Abiram the night before now lay as ash, seared forever in their rebellion.

Weeping women and shrieking children were the only music to be heard this grim day. Moshe stalked to Eleazar, son of Aaron and gripped his arm. Remove the censers from the charred remains.

Stricken, Eleazar looked to the still-smoking, blackened field.

The censers of the men who sinned at the cost of their lives . . . Moshe seemed to have aged years in that moment. His weary eyes finally found Yehoshua, and together, they both considered the cost of rebellion, the full weight of Yahweh’s answering justice. Scatter the coals some distance away, for the censers are holy.

Wh-what am I do with the censers? Eleazar asked, his voice quiet, desperate.

Hammer them into sheets to overlay the altar, for they were presented before the Lord and have become holy. Determination glinted hard in the Lord’s chosen. Let them be a sign to the Israelites.

Somber, Yehoshua sat and stared at the field. The clinking of hammer against bronze sounded as heartbeats through the night. Banging reminders of rebellion, of justice, of Yahweh’s answer. That none save a descendent of Aaron should burn incense before the Lord or he would become like Korah and his followers.

Yehoshua knew, even with the deaths at his hand as God’s warrior, this day would ring in his mind for the rest of his years. Even as morning dawned, he remained sitting, watching, listening.

A murmur caught his ear. He turned, noticing two men who’d emerged from their tents. They’ve killed the Lord’s people, one said.

Yehoshua came up with a start, ready to defend Moshe’s honor.

A touch on his shoulder. He jerked around and faced his bent master. Have you not yet learned? Yahweh will answer. He will defend His.

But as the sun rose, so did the complaints, the murmuring. Yehoshua could not believe his ears. The people would rebel? Again? Had they learned nothing with the burning of their own?

An assembly gathered, shouting at Moshe and Aaron, and moved toward the tent of meeting. Suddenly, a massive cloud covered the tent. Hot and white, the glory of the Lord appeared.

Quickly. Waving his brother over with wrinkled hands gnarled but strong, Moshe dragged Yehoshua to the front of the tent. A strange wail went up somewhere outside. The sound of intense grief, so great that it sent a chill down Yehoshua’s spine.

Get away from this assembly, so I can put an end to them at once.

Moshe and Aaron threw themselves to the ground, faces to the dirt. Moshe motioned to his brother. Take your censer and put incense in it, along with burning coals from the altar, and hurry to the assembly to make atonement for them. Wrath has come out from the Lord; the plague has started.

Aaron scrambled to his feet, grabbed his censer, and rushed to carry out Moshe’s command.

Screaming poured through the air as they rose and followed him to the assembly. Yehoshua was taken aback at what greeted them. Half among them already showed signs of the plague. A man tumbled to the ground, dead. Another.

And another.

Aaron offered the incense and made atonement for them, standing between the living and the dead. That day the dead numbered nearly fifteen thousand, save three hundred. Had Aaron not made atonement, the plague would have ravaged the entire camp. So many paid the price for rebellion, for questioning Yahweh’s chosen. For making themselves gods.

Future generations must be warned. Protected.

1

— Ten Days Ago —

Jebel al-Lawz, Tabuk Province, Saudi Arabia

Vindication tasted like sweat. Backbreaking, limb-aching sweat. Tzivia Khalon pushed onto her knees and used the back of her gloved hand to wipe away the perspiration plastering her hair to her face and neck. She needed a break. In the logbook, she recorded her progress, sketched what the B23 grid site resembled, then stood and started for the sorting tent.

Noel Garelli, her assistant, looked up from B20. Giving up?

Tzivia snorted. In your dreams. Though they’d all thought about it. Two weeks onsite, and they’d uncovered nothing of significance, nothing directly connected to the Bronze Age or the Israelites. But there was no way she’d walk away so soon. Dig sites could go from mundane to extraordinary in the space of an inch.

Just an inch. I just need an inch. Just 25.4 millimeters to clear her résumé of the Kafr al-Ayn disaster three years ago, when a toxin from an artifact stolen from her mentor, Dr. Joseph Cathey, nearly wiped out a village. The president of the United States had been killed in the aftermath. Despite being cleared of negligence and wrongdoing, Tzivia bore the dent in her reputation from that incident. It had endangered grants. Stalled donations.

Jebel al-Lawz was her chance to expunge that humiliating experience from her life. One amazing find, and she would be sought after. Respected. She wouldn’t let anything or anyone ruin this chance. Not even her nosy brother in the States. Or his brooding, handsome friend, Tox Russell.

Tzivia huffed. Tox had died three years ago. It still stung. Not to mention the way he’d shut her out when they arrested him. Told her to move on. It’s for your own good.

She had moved on—she was now Doctor Tzivia Khalon. Had it not been for the weight Dr. Cathey’s name carried, Kafr al-Ayn could’ve destroyed her career and life. But being an authority on Ancient Near Eastern studies, he pulled a few strings and had them cleared of misconduct. When she compared her résumé against his, she might as well be in kindergarten. Her focus had strictly been Ancient Near East, but Dr. Cathey had degrees in Hebrew Bible and semitic epigraphy as well as Ancient Near Eastern Studies. With two doctorates, he now served as an adjunct professor with Oxford’s Oriel College.

She scanned the archaeological dig site. Her site. With the help of Dr. Cathey, they’d won the grant to search for answers about Jebel al-Lawz, the land purportedly where the Israelites had encamped. Gaining the permission of the Saudi Commission for Tourism and National Heritage to work this site hadn’t been easy, but the promise of cooperation and sharing all artifacts got her team onsite. Having Dr. Cathey backing the dig gave her clearance to even be here, gave the dig credibility, and provided her with an authority who could review any recovered artifacts.

Years ago, the Saudis had erected a fence with a guard hut around this area to keep out looters and vandals. They believed something significant happened here, and she shared that belief, though she wouldn’t fall prey again to Dr. Cathey’s religious ideals—that was his one detraction. Or should she call it distraction? He believed the Bible to be more than a piece of literature. He believed Moses had been here. That the blackened mountain in the distance was where the Hebrew patriarch received the Ten Commandments.

Many scholars refuted the site. Some had outright called her desperate for coming here. Supernaturally carved tablets or not, she and her team would attempt to answer whether this site truly was the biblical Mount Sinai.

Just one inch, Tzivia whispered as she pivoted.

Earth gave way beneath her feet. Rocks scraped and clawed her legs, yanking her downward. With a scream, she shielded her face. Terror grabbed her by the throat. Dirt and rocks smothered her face.

Then didn’t. She felt the world fall away. Coldness wrapped her tight in the split second before she thudded to a stop.

Pain slammed into her back. She landed, staring up at the hole. It seemed impossibly small for her to have fallen through. Dirt dribbled into her eyes. She jerked away, peeling off the ground. Her hand suctioned against mud. Mud? This arid region wasn’t exactly fertile terrain. She squinted around. To the left, a short, two-foot-high stone circle. Worn, broken boards straddled the stones.

Plop! Plunk!

Water rippled. Water! The stones encircled the lip of a well.

Wiping muddy hands on her tactical pants, she climbed to her feet. Before her—she froze. Mud bricks laid out in a consistent pattern. A wall? She bent, her fingers tracing the mortar that had formed through the years between the bricks. No, not years—centuries!

Tzivia!

Here, she called, waving a hand behind her but unable to take her eyes off the wall. Something protruded from the ground at the base. Gloves back on, she gently brushed aside the silt. Noel, c’mere!

Sending a rope down.

Tzivia followed the lower edge of the wall with her gloved finger. How far back did it go? Bricks crumbled at her touch. Her heart climbed into her throat as years of history were reduced to rubble and dust. No no no. She drew back her hand, afraid to create any more damage before it could be logged. Afraid she’d undo the miracle just discovered.

The wall stood about six feet tall. What was this place? A dwelling? It didn’t look right for Bronze Age. Her hope dimmed. She shifted and checked right and left. It stretched the entire length of the underground cave.

But there was a well here. So . . . Tzivia stepped back a few paces. Took in the wall. What’s behind you? She went to her knees. Shoulder to the wet ground, she peered into the new hole. Darkness. She yanked the torch from her hip holster and flashed it into the darkness.

Light stabbed the ebony blanket beyond. Dust particles danced in the beam. A room!

Whoosh!

As another section of wall gave way, Tzivia shoved back and turned away. Coughing, she blinked quickly to clear her eyes.

Tzi!

I’m okay, she said around another cough. We need to stabilize this. It’s all damp and collapsing. My cave-in must’ve weakened the supports or something. A sweet, pungent odor filled the tunnel, nauseating her. Ugh.

Look out below, Noel called.

With a hefty thump, a rope ladder dangled behind Tzivia. Noel’s frame filled the hole topside. Once down, he screwed up his face. What is that smell? It reeks! He steadied the ladder as Basil, one of the interns, clambered down, too.

Flashlight in hand, Tzivia wiped her face. Something caught her eye in the darkened room. She froze. Something had moved. A dark shape. Shadow? Tilting her head, she bent over the partially destroyed wall and sucked in a breath at what she saw. Dust caught in her throat and made her cough. Basil started coughing, too.

Should we go back up? Noel asked, his lanky frame towering over her.

The air’s stale, but we’ll be okay for a few more minutes. Tzivia pointed. Look. Shoved up against the far side of the earthen room sat a chest, maybe two feet by two feet. Frayed rope handles didn’t look like they’d hold its weight. Come on. They climbed over the crumbled wall, causing more of it to collapse. She cringed at the damage but allowed the lure of discovery to lead her on.

I’m not feeling so great, Basil muttered as they squatted.

There’s something stamped in the lid. She wasn’t ready to admit it looked like a Templar cross. Let’s get it to the sorting tent.

Noel nodded, grabbing the sides of the chest. He lifted it.

Crack! Pop!

No! Tzivia cried as the bottom fell away.

Three objects hit the ground.

Sucking in a disbelieving breath, she lifted one of the items in her gloved hand. Noel! Exhilaration spiraled through her veins as Basil aimed his flashlight at it. "I think . . . this is a Hebrew miktereth. Though most censers were made of pottery, these were bronze and roughly six inches in length, with a handle supporting a small cup-like space for the burning incense. She traced the markings. A giddy laugh surged as she looked at the other two censers on the ground. I can’t be sure of the date down here—it’s too dark and we need to test scrapings—but they look Bronze Age."

But . . . bronze? Noel asked, pointing to the metal censer.

True. Most miktereths of this age were made of pottery. Except. . . .

Did we find it? Noel’s voice was but a whisper. Please, tell me we found it—this is where the Israelites camped, isn’t it?

She laughed, looking up at him with history in her hand. I believe we did.

****

— Two Days Ago —

Okomu Forest Reserve, Edo State, Nigeria

If you do this thing, do not think I will come save you.

Slinking through the humid jungle, Cole Tox Russell almost grinned at the words of his conscience vibrating in his comms piece. If you’re right, he subvocalized, leaning against a tree and scanning the dense vegetation through his thermal binoculars, there won’t be anything to save.

It is a bad idea. His own personal Jiminy Cricket came in the form of a six-foot-five Nigerian named Chijioke Okorie.

It’d be boring if it wasn’t. Remember, three minutes. Their self-imposed assurance that no tangos came out of there alive.

Ambush. They’d agreed the probability was high. As in more likely than not. Enough to tell anyone with half a brain not to engage. But Tox was missing that half. This half had him stalking through the jungle because of a twelve-year-old girl. No way could he sit back on the savannah, watching cheetahs outrun gazelle, knowing his niece, Evie Russell, was in the hands of sadistic guerillas.

Not after the promise he’d made in a pool of blood.

So here he was, shirt soaked to his chest and boots rubbing blisters into his ankles and toes, working his way north to the camp. Wiping away the sweat, he scanned the forest, alert. Nerves thrumming.

"It is not safe, Ndidi," Chiji huffed.

Tox nodded to no one but himself. His friend had it right—this wasn’t safe. In fact, it could end his life. But securing the objective would fulfill that promise.

He glanced up at the canopy, where fading sunlight poked through defiantly. Sweat slipped down his temple, traced his jaw, and raced along his neck. This had to be done. And even with the calloused warning of no help from his friend, Tox knew Chiji would come. Tox had made the mistake once of thinking Chiji only warred with Bible verses. He could still feel the thwack of the stick across his back, unprepared for the skilled kali strike that face-planted him in the West African desert.

Skulking, Tox made his way around the tree trunks. The guerillas had made it too easy and too obvious. Yep, a trap. Within a few hours of the hovel he called home—where he’d managed to stay hidden for the last three years—and Evie just happens to end up held hostage by some rogue outfit with connections to DC?

Right.

Despite the infinitesimal possibility that Evie was actually here, Tox couldn’t ignore it. Could not risk the potential threat against her life.

Two targets, twenty yards north of your position, Chiji said from his nest in one of the tree houses overlooking this narrow swath of forest. Tox bet the national park hadn’t imagined their perches for bird watching and appreciating the unique environment would come in handy as the vantage point for a mission.

Tox moved east to flank the targets. This was stupid. Really stupid. Anyone setting him up would also know it was stupid to try. He wanted to believe nobody was asinine enough to play chicken with the life of a child. Especially not with him involved. He’d more than earned his Toxic moniker.

Snap!

The sound of breaking branches sent Tox into the buttresses of a nearby kapok, its gnarled roots looking like the foot of a monstrous dog, nails digging into the soil. Shoulder pressed to the trunk, he peered around, keeping his movements slow and fluid as the palmate branches swaying above. Nothing sudden to draw attention. Using his legs, he pushed up.

A shadow moved.

He dropped, locked onto the target. Was there only one? Prostrate, he keyed his mic. Count?

One.

Only one? Tox stared through the heavy forestation at the shape. Why weren’t there more? He could take out this tango and nobody would know. He was almost insulted.

Regardless—no need to waste a life. Tox slid south around the kapok buttresses. Swiftly darted westward, directly into the path of the perimeter guards.

The ten-meter base of the trees and their root system made navigating the area tricky. But also assisted him. Trip alarms would be more visible. The placement more obvious. Tox hiked up on the thick buttress of another kapok. From the larger limbs hung bulbous seedpods surrounded by a fluffy, yellowish fiber much like cotton. Resistant to water but highly flammable. He skirted from one buttress to another, using the roots to protect himself from trip sensors, and watched the thick trunks for higher-placed sensors.

Crack!

Bark spat at him.

Tox dropped to the ground, unholstering his Glock 22.

You’ve been spotted.

Understatement of the year. Since the enemy knew he was here, no need for skulking. Tox hunch-ran along the perimeter. After several switchbacks, he was hopeful he’d lost the guard who’d spotted him.

A dozen yards ahead, the outer rim of the camp they’d reconned with the long-range scope Chiji now used finally came into view. Beyond it, a hastily assembled, thatched-roof squat sat beneath a massive kapok, ripe with fruit. Good protection and cover. But within the building—cement. At least two feet thick. Too formidable to get thermals and heat signatures. Security had been tight. He’d have preferred bribing a local to get eyes on the target, but time didn’t allow that. Their timeline had been way too short.

Moving in, he subvocalized, switching his gun for his KA-BAR Kraton-handled Mark I with a serrated edge. He rushed up behind the first sentry, who was armed with an M16 and a handgun, hooked an arm around his neck, and severed his carotid. Tox lowered the guard. A boot knife glinted.

Tox slung the assault rifle and pistol into the dense foliage. He tucked the knife in his boot. The crunching of twigs pushed him into a low crouch. The thick stench of cigarettes polluted the air. Didn’t these two know smoking got them executed by Boko Haram? By Tox Russell, too.

He slipped behind a tree and took aim, aware that even silenced shots could be heard. No choice. He eased back the trigger. Fired two shots at the first man, taking him down. He acquired the second and neutralized him before the guy could figure out what was happening and call for help.

Two more en route, Chiji warned.

Tox scurried forward, ready to silence them. When their forest camo came into view, he launched himself at the first soldier. Slammed a hard right into his nose. Heard the bone crack, ramming into gray matter. He spun to the second—

A weapon muzzle stared back. Tox stilled for a half second, then hooked the man’s leg and swept him off his feet.

Crack!

The bullet went wide as the man’s head hit a buttress with a sickening thud. His neck lay at an awkward angle. Tangos neutralized, Tox sprinted toward the structure. Inside, he’d be on his own. Chiji couldn’t guide him.

He stared at the door that hung awkwardly to the side. It’s a trap. But if it wasn’t . . .

Going in. Tox slid his M4A1 around to his front and took in a quick, measuring breath. Blew it out. Shimmied around the wall. Then lifted a flashbang from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it through the space where the flimsy door gaped.

He jerked back. Waited.

Shouts preceded the concussive boom by two seconds.

Tox rushed in. Went right. Scanned the scene as he moved to the corner for protection. The interior served one function—to conceal the cement shelter. A small table with knocked-over tin cups was the only barrier between him and two disoriented guards. Hands over their ears, they writhed. Tox put them out of their misery.

Two tangos down, he muttered, swinging around so his back wasn’t to anyone entering the hut. His gaze hit a steel door. Moment of truth. Who was behind Door #1? He slid along the wall and palmed the handle.

Locked.

Tox pivoted. Drove the heel of his boot against the door. It bucked but held. He kicked again. This time the lock surrendered. He shouldered the door open.

Tox stepped across the threshold. Darkness devoured him. He flicked on his night vision goggles and pushed to the corner. When the wash of green draped the area, Tox bit back a curse. Empty. Trap!

As a shadow moved, he snapped to the right.

White light exploded across his vision.

Grunting, he ripped off the NVGs, knowing the attacker was coming at him. Temporarily blinded, he silenced himself. His pain. His panic. And listened.

To his right a subtle shift of air. Tox hesitated. Pain exploded across his temple. He flipped backward. His head cracked against the cement wall.

Singular focus was all that would keep him alive right now. He rolled and slid the boot knife free. He came up, his vision clearing, his ears ringing, and sighted the attacker. On his right. A flurry of kicks.

With lightning-fast reflexes, he drove the knife into the man’s leg.

Augh! The man twitched but came unyielding, determination gouged into his Caucasian face. And he hadn’t shot Tox. Which proved this was a trap meant to capture him. Just like they’d suspected.

The idea lit fire down Tox’s spine. He again drew out his KA-BAR.

His attacker produced one of his own. Matched determination and weapons. But Tox had been fighting for his life for the last three years.

The man lunged with a stab.

Tox deflected. Grabbed the man’s wrist. Pulled him forward and rammed his elbow into the guy’s face. At the same time, the attacker jammed a knife-hand into Tox’s back—his kidney. Tox howled.

They both stumbled. Tox twisted around just in time to deflect a knife from his throat. He leapt backward, his abdomen exposed. The blade sliced his stomach. With a strike, the man nailed Tox’s wrist, sending the knife clattering. Searing pain from the cut nearly disabled his thinking. He thrust the fleshy part of his hand against the man’s carotid.

The man dropped, gasping for air.

Pain vied for Tox’s attention. He flung around, searching for his knife. Found it—in the hand of the man grinning around bloody teeth.

Shouldn’t have come, he growled, sounding one hundred percent American.

Yeah, Tox gritted, lifting a stick. You shouldn’t have.

The man lunged with the KA-BAR. Tox slapped his arm away, cracked the stick against his wrist. Then drew back and snapped it at the right side of his neck. At the last minute, Tox diverted. Struck his head.

As a massive whoosh ignited the air, the man tumbled forward. Chiji had held up his promise to send an RPG into the shelter if Tox hadn’t emerged in three minutes. If it hadn’t been for the cement and steel, they’d be toast.

Tox cringed as superheated air burst through the shelter. Oxygen sucked out. With the kapok around them, the forest would quickly become an inferno.

He considered his attacker. No doubt a brother in arms. Doing his job. Like a loyal dog returning to his vomit. No man left behind.

Tox grabbed his attacker’s ankles and dragged him out of the hut. Dropped him at the entrance then limped into the forest with only one thought: They’d pay for this.

2

— Day 1 —

Washington, DC

President Galen Russell strode to the dais in the White House briefing room. He gripped the lectern and peered out at the bay of reporters and journalists. It is with the deepest regret that I confirm the death of former vice president and current ambassador to the United Kingdom, Howard Lammers. He died tonight from wounds sustained in an attack three days ago as he and his wife, Lorraine, attended the National Theatre in London. My condolences and prayers, as well as those of all Americans, are with the family and loved ones devastated by this horrific act.

The president stared into the cameras, clearly affected by the incident. At this hour, we have few details, but we are working closely with the British authorities to locate those responsible and deliver justice. Thank you.

As the press secretary took the podium to field questions, Barry Attaway fell into step beside the president, who headed out of the congested room. The entourage trailing him, which included the DoD, CIA, and other three-letters, made its way down the hall to the Oval Office.

Out of sight of the reporters, Galen looked to Barry. Anything new?

Barry shook his head.

Keep on it. I want to know who did this, and I want them to face the fullest measure of our justice.

As he’d said a dozen times in earlier meetings. Of course, sir.

Galen turned to his administrative assistant. I’d like to talk to Lorraine Lammers.

The fifty-something woman nodded, lifting a phone. I’ll try again.

You said you were going to handle this, a voice hissed near Barry’s ear. He tensed and turned, staring into the gray eyes of Rick Hamer, director of the CIA’s Special Activities Division.

After a quick glance at the president making his way back to the Oval Office, Barry whispered, Relax.

Hamer stopped, his eyebrows rising to his hairline. Relax? He’d been a Force Recon Marine and wasn’t used to being rebuffed. We have another dead American. How many people do they have to hit before—

First, Barry said, making sure the president didn’t hear, it’s still fresh. We don’t have proof—

Seriously? Hamer growled. You’re going there? And where is this guy you said could handle it?

Barry tried to shake off the nerves tightening his gut. En route.

The fire in Hamer’s eyes warned he didn’t believe Barry. He pursed his lips and gave a terse nod. He’d better be. We need this stopped. The president—

"Cannot be implicated. Barry felt the thunder in his chest louder than the bombs in Iraq. He and the United States must be kept clean—"

Which is why we gave you a week. You promised it’d be taken care of. It’s not.

Two days. My man is bringing him in.

Wait—does this guy even know what he’s after? When there wasn’t an answer, Hamer muttered something under his breath. You should’ve left this to the big dogs, Attaway.

Why? So more can end up like Lammers? Attaway saw he’d overstepped, saw the anger that pushed past the director’s tough persona. He needed to soothe him. We’ll get this assassin.

We need results, not talk. Hamer’s gaze raked Barry over live coals. Where are you getting this guy anyway? How does a chief of staff have connections big enough for an op like this?

Don’t worry about that.

I am worried. Hamer cuffed Barry’s arm, angling in. I let you have this. My men were ready, but you said you had a way to keep the president clean. You may want him for a second term, but with screw-ups like this—

Barry. The president stood at the end of the hall, his dark brow knotted as he glanced between the two of them. Ready?

Saved by the bell. Sir. Barry unhooked his arm and moved to the president without another word to the SAD director.

They rounded the corner and Galen glanced at him. Hamer looked ticked.

He always looks ticked, sir. At his own office, Barry slowed. I have to get some things taken care of before the next briefing.

Keep me posted.

Barry nodded.

You will, won’t you?

He stopped short this time. Sir?

With a sigh, Galen turned to him. That conversation back there . . . it feels like you’re not telling me something. He patted Barry on the chest with the back of his hand. Always trying to protect me, eh?

Of course, sir. With that, Barry headed into his office. He slid behind his desk and eased into the chair. The engraved crystal clock on his desk showed 1300. What was taking MacIver so long?

Muddled in conspiracies and threats by every three-letter agency that existed, as well as committees and subcommittees of the House and Congress, Barry was exhausted by the alphabet soup and the pressure. He was standing on a catwalk suspended over two very large, boiling cauldrons. One wrong step, one more failure . . .

The U.S. needed this assassin dealt with, yet they couldn’t touch this. Everyone on the Hill wanted answers about who had killed the kindly former vice president. So Barry had taken a risk. One he felt certain would pay for itself a hundred times over.

His phone rang. Spotting the caller ID, Barry snatched it from the cradle. Where have you been? They’re breathing fire down my neck! And you’re a day late.

And one rogue short.

Barry fell against the desk. So Vaughn MacIver hadn’t secured the target. The former SEAL commander had a pristine record, a fierce one. He succeeded where few did. That was why Barry handpicked him. That was why Barry moved forward with this desperate mission. What went wrong?

He smelled us coming.

How did you let that happen?

He’s good, sir. And I expected that, but . . .

But what?

It’s just that I know this guy—not personally, but this type of soldier. Their instincts are razor-sharp. They get the job done no matter the cost or length of time it takes to complete the mission.

Yes, I thought you were that type of man, MacIver. That’s why I tapped you!

Tox Russell is in a league all his own. I can’t explain how he knew we were there. Most of the villagers didn’t know. He walked into the trap and shouldn’t have walked out, but the instant he entered, things changed.

Barry cursed under his breath. When he had to come clean with all this, Hamer would eat him for lunch—and Galen would have the leftovers for dinner.

I knew coming down here . . . that if he beat me, MacI continued, "I’d come home in a