Bob loved his job and he loved his truck. There were plenty of things to complain about when it came to the government, but the truck he was driving wasn't one of them. The cab of the Peterbilt 529 was a home away from home. It had a good bed, top-notch sound system, comfortable seats, a refrigerator, and a flat screen TV, plus the security features unique to the OST rigs. There weren't any ejection seats or machine guns mounted in the bumper, but sometimes Bob felt a little like James Bond.

  On the left side of the dash a big, red button was hidden under a protective cover that could be flipped back in an instant. Pressing that button would blow the wheels off the trailer, fill the inside with sticky foam, and send an emergency signal that would bring black helicopters swooping down from the sky.

  The Texas night rushed by, the rhythmic sound of tires on the pavement providing a soothing counterpoint to the music coming over the speakers. Up ahead, a pair of jackrabbits darted across the blacktop in the glare of the high beams. There wasn't much else to see along this road except flat land and scrub. The route had been chosen to avoid populated areas as much as possible.

  He glanced in his mirrors. The lights of the escort showed behind him, right where they should be. Two SUVs with four government agents in suits who looked like they belonged in The Matrix. Nothing had ever happened in the four years he'd been on the job, but with the kind of stuff he was hauling, he was glad those boys were back there. They were all former special forces, big, tough bastards.

  He was getting near to Childress and the intersection with U.S. 287, where he'd turn left toward Amarillo. Then it was home for a two day break before the next run. He looked at the photograph of his wife pasted on the dash, taken the spring after Eddie was born. She was standing in a field of bluebonnets, smiling and holding the baby.

  By the time he got home the kids would be in school, and Cindy would be waiting for him. He was looking forward to wrapping his arms around her and carrying her into the bedroom. She liked it when he did that. Hell, twelve years married, two kids, and he was more in love with her than ever. She was a tiny thing, but boy, she was something else in bed. His very own Texas Tornado, just like in the old blues song.

  A few minutes later he made the turn onto 287. Another fifteen minutes, and he was coming up on the town of Estilline. Up ahead, he saw flares on the road and the flashing lights of two Highway Patrol cars. A cop stood in the road and waved him down.

  Bob rolled down his window. The cop sauntered over to the cab and stepped up onto the running board. The man was whipcord lean and sunburned. His face was mean looking under his Stetson, with squinty eyes.

  "What's the problem, officer?"

  "Where you headed?"

  "Amarillo."

  "Well you can't go this way. Some dumbass ran his barge into the bridge over the river and took out one of the spans. You'll have to go 86 West, through Turkey."

  "Damn."

  The cop looked at the shiny blue truck.

  "Nice rig you got here. Those boys back there with you?"

  "Yes."

  "You've got government plates. What are you hauling?"

  "Machinery. CNC stuff, programmed for making parts on the stealth fighters. That's why I've got an escort."

  The lie came easy.

  "Uh, huh." The cop stepped back onto the pavement. "Y'all have a good trip. The turn off to 86 is right up the road."

  "Thanks."

  Bob rolled up his window, put the rig in gear and moved past the cars.

  Nosy cop.

  The radio that connected Bob to the escort crackled.

  "Bob, what was that about?"

  "The bridge over the Red River is shut down. I'm diverting to 86."

  "Roger that. Out."

  He turned onto the new route and planted the speedometer on sixty. Plenty fast enough, considering what he was carrying. The bombs weren't armed, but an accident would do more than end his job with OST. There was enough plutonium in those bombs to make this part of Texas a bad place to live in if it got loose.

  Route 86 went through Turkey and Silverton, then connected with Interstate 27 at Tulia. From there it was a straight shot north to Amarillo. Between Estilline and Turkey was thirty miles of nothing. He reached over to turn up the volume on the CD player.

  Bob smiled, thinking about his wife.

  Cindy, babe, I'm coming home.

  The tire pressure display on his panel lit up. The steering began to feel heavy. Bob let his foot off the accelerator. The front left tire was losing pressure fast.

  Damn it. All I need.

  He steered to the side of the road and picked up the radio.

  "Looks like I've got a flat tire. I have to stop. Better call up the repair truck."

  "Copy."

  He brought the truck to a stop. One of the escorts pulled ahead and parked, the other stopped behind. Bob left the diesel engine running and stepped down from the cab. The tractor settled with a sigh onto the rim of the wheel.

  The men in the SUVs got out of their cars.

  The lead agent was named Aaron Dupree. Bob was six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds, but Dupree dwarfed him. Before he'd joined up, Dupree had played football for LSU. He wasn't someone you'd want to mess with.

  There hadn't been any traffic on the road for the past twenty minutes. Now a set of headlights appeared in the distance, coming up the highway behind them. Another set approached from the opposite direction. Dupree looked at the lights coming toward them and felt the butt of the pistol under his jacket.

  Everyone who worked for OST knew these cargoes were a prime target for terrorists. The escorts were all former military and had gone through extensive training to prepare them for a potential terrorist attack. They were all armed, including Bob. He kept a Glock 23 in the cab. The trailers with their dangerous cargos were booby-trapped. Satellites kept track of the shipments. No one in their right mind would try to take one of these trucks.

  What all the planners and trainers had forgotten was that it was a matter of opinion whether or not a terrorist was in his right mind.

  As the two sets of headlights coming up from behind got closer, Dupree saw they were highway patrol, probably the same vehicles that had been in Estilline. A little of the tension building up across his broad shoulders eased away.

  The cars came to a halt by the convoy. Four cops got out the stretch their legs. One of them lit a cigarette. The man with the squinty eyes walked over to Dupree. He gestured at the flat tire.

  "Looks like you got a little trouble. Anything we can do to help?"

  "No thanks," Dupree said, "we got it covered. Someone's coming."

  "Well, that's all right then," the cop said.

  He half turned away, then drew his pistol and shot Dupree twice in the chest, then once in the head. Dupree was dead before he hit the ground. The other three cops pulled their weapons and began shooting. In seconds all of the escorts were down on the pavement, dead or dying.

  Bob scrambled for the cab. He had the door open and was reaching for the button when a bullet struck him in the back. He fell across the driver's seat. The leader of the phony cops put another round in his head. Blood and bits of brain matter sprayed over the windshield and the picture of Bob's wife and kids.

  "Move," the man said. "Get the bodies into the SUVs."

  He pulled Bob's lifeless body out of the cab and got in. The radio was playing a song by Willie Nelson. The man took a card from his pocket and read what was on it. He pushed an unobtrusive black button next to the speedometer. A panel slid back on the dash, revealing a computer screen and keyboard. He entered a sixteen digit code. In the back of the trailer, the doors unlocked.

  As they cleared the road of the dead, a new tractor-trailer rig appeared and backed up to the open doors of the OST trailer. Two men moved a heavy steel ramp into place between them, forming a bridge.

  The bombs were mounted on wheeled racks. With security measures turned off, it was a simple matter to release the clamps holding them in place, roll the bombs into the second trailer, and strap them down. The entire operation took only a few moments. As soon as the transfer was complete, the second truck drove away. The police cars and SUVs drove off in the opposite direction. All that was left at the scene were dark stains on the blacktop and the disabled truck sitting by the side of the road.

  Four nuclear bombs, each big enough to turn a large city into a glowing crater, vanished into the night.

  2

  Nick Carter came awake to the sound of his pager vibrating across the end table next to the bed. The green numerals on the dresser clock showed twenty minutes before five in the morning. Usually the twins woke him by four at the latest. By some miracle, they were still asleep. Next to him, Selena rolled over and pulled the covers over her head.

  He picked up the pager and looked at the message.

  911.

  Damn, he thought

  911 meant a national security event had taken place. 911 meant the shit had hit the fan.

  Selena sat up in bed next to him.

  "What is it?"

  "Harker sent a 911. Something's happened."

  Selena sighed.

  "Someday nobody's going to call us in the middle of the night."

  "It's not the middle of the night. It's almost five in the morning."

  "It's too early for jokes, Nick. Go on, call her."

  He sat on the edge of the bed and called in. Elizabeth Harker answered.

  "Nick, where are you?"

  "Home. Asleep, or at least I was. "

  "You need to get in here."

  He didn't bother asking what had happened. She wouldn't tell him over the phone.

  "As soon as we can."

  She disconnected. Outside the bedroom window, a bird began singing.

  "She wants us to come in," Nick said.

  "I don't suppose she told you what it was about?"

  "Are you kidding?"

  "I'll go start the coffee," Selena said.

  Nick used the bathroom, ran his hand over the stubble on his face, decided not to bother shaving. He pulled on gray Dockers, a light blue shirt and a gray jacket.

  911 meant the world might be ending, but he was going to get a cup of coffee before it did. He went into the kitchen. Selena had started the coffee. He heard her go down to the other end of the loft, to Anna's room.

  Anna Montalbano had become one of their family. She'd started out as a part-time nanny months before and become a full-time friend. After she'd helped foil an attempt by Japanese Yakuza to hold the twins hostage, they'd all decided the best thing would be for her to move in with them. There was plenty of room in the huge converted loft where they lived. The twins loved her. Nick was grateful every day that Selena had found her. He was even more grateful that Selena had convinced her to stay after a second attack had taken place in their home.

  He had to hand it to her, Anna was a tough cookie. Especially for a civilian. He couldn't think of anyone better to look after the twins.

  Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten. It was early October. The heat and humidity of an East Coast summer had faded. For Nick, it was his favorite time of year, but Harker's message promised to cast a pall over the day.

  He sipped his coffee and thought about how he was still here in Washington, still working for Elizabeth Harker. Somehow he and Selena couldn't quite get it together to move on to something else. They'd talked about selling the loft. Once it had been an ideal place to live, but that was before people had tried to kill them in it. They hadn't been able to decide on an alternative. It wasn't hard to understand why. Staying in Washington was mixed up with working for Harker. Moving meant giving that up.

  Selena came back into the kitchen.

  Nick handed her a cup of coffee.

  "You'll need this."

  Twenty minutes later they crossed the Potomac headed for Virginia House, a restored federal mansion that was the new headquarters. Officially, the Project no longer existed. The current political environment didn't favor covert actions, no matter how effective they were. The new president wasn't like his predecessor. Hopkins had been afraid of political consequences if he kept the Project funded. He'd shut them down, but he still found ways to use them while covering his ass at the same time.

  With Selena's help, Elizabeth Harker had set up a consulting service for clients who needed the specialized expertise her team could provide. Without White House protection, she had to tread lightly. Elizabeth had tried to avoid situations that might lead to violence. So far it hadn't worked out.

  Outside Virginia House, a small brass plaque by the gate announced the Harker Group. Nick pulled up under the portico in front of the mansion. They went in through a set of oak doors, passed under a large 19th-century circular skylight overhead, and went into Elizabeth's office. She was sitting behind her desk as they came in.

  Harker was a small woman, with an elfin, heart-shaped face. What she lacked in size she made up for in dynamic energy. Her eyes were a deep, emerald green, her hair black as a raven's wing. Lately there were more streaks of white in it.

  Elizabeth almost always wore black business suits, usually with a white blouse. Today she'd chosen a blouse of crushed green silk that picked up the color of her eyes. She wore emerald earrings and a favorite pin that was shaped like a golden salamander with emerald eyes.

  Stephanie Willits sat at a separate computer console near Elizabeth's desk. Steph was Elizabeth's deputy and friend. She had a pleasant, wide face that spoke of her Midwestern roots. Her auburn hair was tied behind her in a ponytail.

  "Morning, guys."

  "Hi, Steph," Nick said.

  "Where's Valentina?" Selena asked.

  "Still asleep, as far as I know," Elizabeth said. "She doesn't need to be here for this meeting."

  "We got here as fast as we could," Nick said. "What happened?"

  "Better sit down for this one," Elizabeth said.

  They took seats on one of two brown leather couches in front of her desk.

  "OST was moving four B-61 bombs from Dyess to the Pantex plant in Texas," she said. "Somebody hijacked them."

  "I thought those trailers were escorted and booby-trapped," Selena said.

  "They are. The hijackers killed the escorts and the driver. They defeated all the security measures."

  Nick raised his eyebrows. "The safeguards are supposed to make that impossible."

  "That's what everyone thought, until now. After the trailer is armed, it's locked up tighter than Fort Knox. The driver can activate emergency features to disable it, but he can't open the doors. You can't even disconnect the trailer from the tractor without a unique code. Everything is controlled by a computer. When the truck arrives at its destination, someone enters the code. That disables the security features and allows the doors to be opened."

  "Then how did they get in?"

  "That's something we're going to have to find out."

  "And the nukes?"

  "They moved them into another trailer and drove off."

  "Shit."

  "That's what we're all going to be in soon, if someone doesn't find those bombs. I got a call from DCI Hood. The president has decided once again that he can make an exception for our involvement. We'll be working under CIA auspices."

  "Oh, joy," Nick said. "That makes me so happy."

  "Don't start, Nick."

  "This is the FBI's turf. They'll go ballistic if we show up."

  "Isn't Langley supposed to stay out of domestic incidents?" Selena asked.

  "That's right," Elizabeth said, "unless there are unusual circumstances. Four stolen nuclear bombs qualifies as unusual."

  "Please tell me those bombs weren't armed," Nick said.

  "Of course they weren't armed. It doesn't matter. Whoever took them can't set them off, but there's enough nuclear material in them to make a lot of trouble."

  "How much material?"

  "Each one can be dialed up to four kilotons. They use a plutonium core."

  "Somebody stole sixteen kilotons worth of plutonium?"

  "You must have gotten an 'A' in math," Elizabeth said.

  Nick got up and went to the sideboard. He poured a cup of coffee.

  "How do you want to start, Director?"

  "This has to be an inside job," Elizabeth said. "No one outside of OST knows when nukes are being moved, much less the route. Someone had to give the bad guys the route and the code for the truck computer."

  "Those bombs could be anywhere."

  "The satellites might have something," Stephanie said. "Freddie's already on it."

  Freddie was a Cray computer Stephanie had modified with artificial intelligence.

  "It's going to be hard to spot the truck they used," Elizabeth said. "There are a lot of big rigs out there. It's like trying to find one unique grain of sand on the beach."

  "If I were them, I'd go to ground and get out of sight," Nick said. "Or I'd move the bombs out of the country, fast."

  "Mexico?"

  "If they don't park in a barn somewhere, Mexico is a good bet. Close by and lots of places they could get across the border without any problem. Or they could head for the gulf, offload to a ship. There's no way we can watch every spot on the coast. I'm not optimistic about finding where they went anytime soon."

  "The president won't want to hear that."

  "That's too damn bad. Playing ostrich on this isn't going to help. Whoever did this is smart. It took some serious planning to pull off."

  "Just what we need," Stephanie said. "Smart terrorists."

  "Look on the bright side," Nick said. "It's good they're smart."

  "How could that possibly be good?"

  "Do you want somebody stupid messing around with a nuclear bomb?"

  3

  "Let's hear some ideas," Elizabeth said.

  "I have a question," Selena said. "Are we going to bring in Ronnie and Lamont? And what about Valentina?"

  "Not yet. Let's wait and see what happens. For now, the four of us are enough."

  "Five of us. Don't forget Freddie," Stephanie said.

  "Are you listening, Freddie?" Elizabeth asked.