In the case of report number LKR-2867c91, there was one request.

  The automated software created a new e-mail, attached the report, and forwarded it. It didn’t matter that the receiver was someone on the outside, and not a member of Helen’s team. The software was following its programming.

  Just before the original was about to be securely removed from the system, a subroutine kicked in, staying the command. The bit of code was not part of the official program. It had been added in the last two months, and was unknown to anyone within the organization. It had been created for a single purpose. As reports passed through the secondary distribution node, it would perform a rapid keyword search, something it was able to do whether the document was encrypted or not. In the sixty-odd days since it had been attached to the software, the sought-after keywords had not shown up.

  This time, however, all relevant terms appeared in the appropriate order. Per design, the subroutine sent a message to a privately owned P.O. box store in Raleigh, North Carolina, telling the manager that a letter the store had been holding should now be mailed. Once this was accomplished, the original e-mail was erased, as had been the main program’s intent.

  The subroutine’s final act was to destroy itself and any evidence of its existence. This, like its other task, was executed perfectly.

  WASHINGTON, DC

  “YOU’RE SURE?”

  Kyle Morten grabbed the side of his laptop as if he were going to turn it around. “I could show you the photo.”

  Like he knew would happen, his client quickly turned her head away. “Absolutely not! I just want to know that you’re sure.”

  Morten glanced at the picture of the body splayed across a patch of bloodstained ground. “Peter will no longer be a problem.”

  “Finally,” she said, allowing herself the slightest of smiles.

  Morten held back his displeasure at her implication. This had not been a protracted operation. As soon as he’d found out the problem existed, he’d moved into action, identified a creative solution, and—with Griffin’s assistance—implemented a plan to keep the truth from ever getting out. So in light of the careful steps needed to ensure the termination of the Office’s former leader, the operation had been quick and efficient.

  The client rose from her chair and straightened her jacket. “And we’re positive no one else knows what he was looking into?”

  “Positive.”

  “His personal files? I assume those have been taken care of.”

  “Do you want the details? Or…” Apparently the woman needed to be reminded that creating a wall of plausible deniability was part of the services Morten’s company, Darvot Consulting, provided.

  She gave him a look he’d seen on clients’ faces a thousand times before, a blend of arrogance, annoyance, and reluctant admittance he was right.

  “You’ll update me if there is anything else I need to know,” she said.

  “There won’t be.”

  “I’m counting on that.”

  She picked up the leather portfolio she’d walked in with and headed for the exit. Griffin, who had been standing quietly at the back of the office, stepped over to the door and opened it. As she had when she entered, the client left without even acknowledging the man’s presence.

  When they were alone, Morten said, “Are the teams in place?”

  “Ready and waiting.”

  “Give them the go.”

  Griffin pulled out his phone and fired off a text that would activate the two teams of housebreakers, one positioned at the Georgetown apartment building where Peter had lived, and the other outside the nearby townhouse Peter had sometimes used as a satellite office. Both locations would be searched for anything that might pertain to the private investigation Peter had been conducting. So, the real answer to the client’s question would have been, No, the files hadn’t been secured yet, but they soon would be.

  “When is O & O scheduled to begin?” Morten asked.

  “This evening,” Griffin said. “Needed to give our people enough time to look around first.”

  O & O was a for-hire, quasi-government security agency that had proved extremely useful to Darvot over the years. Because it had a poorly defined management structure, Morten had been able to use O & O to obtain sensitive, top-secret information without the organization even realizing what they’d handed over.

  O & O was also useful when it came to assignments Morten and Griffin would rather not use their own men for. In this case, Griffin had engaged the agency to watch the apartment and townhouse once the search was complete, and deal with anyone who might show up in the next few weeks. To support the latter point, a thick file of false documentation had been provided to O & O, indicating anyone who entered either place during that specified time frame was likely connected to a particularly violent Islamic terrorist organization, and should be considered an imminent threat to the country.

  The reason for the stakeout was that, contrary to what Morten had told his client, he was far from positive no one else knew what Peter had learned. While he felt confident that prior to being kidnapped, Peter had kept his investigation to himself—especially given the personal nature of what he was looking into—the concern was about after the old intelligence officer had been taken to Duran Island. Morten thought there was at least an even chance Peter had guessed how Romero had come to possess his and the other men’s names, and had shared his suspicions with his fellow prisoners. This wouldn’t have been a problem if that jackass Romero had pulled off his plan to kill them all. Unfortunately, it appeared that everyone but Peter had escaped. Which meant there were four men out there somewhere who might be a problem.

  That’s why the apartment and townhouse needed to be watched. It was also why Griffin had hired some freelance trackers to hunt down the four men. To this point, none of the fugitives had resurfaced.

  As Morten mentally went through everything again to make sure he hadn’t missed any angles, the desk phone rang. Griffin walked over and picked it up.

  “Yes?” He listened for a moment. “Okay, thank you.” He hung up and looked over at Morten. “Your car’s here.”

  Morten pulled himself from his thoughts, satisfied they’d covered their bases, and walked over to where his shoulder bag was waiting. The rest of his luggage for his flight to Europe was with the doorman downstairs, and undoubtedly being loaded into the car at that very moment. “Anything comes up, anything,” he said, “contact me immediately.”

  “Of course,” Griffin said, opening the door.

  “I’ll be back the evening of the third. Let’s have it wrapped up by then, shall we?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Three

  FIFTY-ONE HOURS EARLIER

  AUGUST 24th

  DURAN ISLAND

  “NO, NO, NO, no, no!” Jonathan Quinn dropped to the ground beside Orlando.

  Blood covered most of her shirt. More saturated her left pant leg, the wounds courtesy of the now-dead Janus. She wasn’t the only victim. Before Quinn and Daeng had taken Janus out, the man had also shot Peter, who was dead before he hit the ground.

  “Orlando. Orlando, can you hear me?”

  A flicker in her eyes.

  “Orlando? Come on, baby, stay with me!”

  Quinn grabbed her hand, hoping she would grip back, but her fingers lay motionless across his.

  “Do you hear me? Baby, please stay with me!”

  A slow, long blink.

  “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine. Just stay with me. Please. Orlando, come on. Stay with me!”

  When her lids slid closed again, they stayed that way.

  “Orlando!”

  Someone grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back.

  “No!” he yelled.

  “You need to move out of the way,” Daeng said calmly.

  Quinn snapped his head around, ready to shove his friend away, but stopped when he saw Liz and Nate running up with the first-aid gear from the plane that had come to take them off the island. Nate skidded to a halt and fell to his knees, then ripped open the Velcro seam of the bag he was carrying.

  Quinn’s sister, on the other hand, froze when she caught sight of Orlando. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Give me that,” Daeng said to Liz, grabbing her bag. He motioned at Quinn. “Get him out of the way.”

  Liz tore her eyes away from Orlando and put an arm around her brother. “We need to give them some room.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Quinn said, twisting away from her.

  “Don’t be stupid. You’ll only make things harder.”

  He glared at her, then looked down at Orlando.

  “Come on. Please,” Liz said.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay,” he whispered.

  Liz guided him off to the side.

  Working at skill levels equal to that of seasoned EMTs, Nate and Daeng ripped away the clothes covering Orlando’s wounds, and set to work stopping the bleeding. Once they’d done what they could, Daeng pulled a transfusion kit out of the bag.

  “What’s her blood type?” he asked.

  Before Quinn could think of the answer, Nate said, “B positive.”

  “I’m B negative,” Daeng said. “She can take from me.”

  As he set up the transfusion line, two of the men they had just rescued—Lanier and Berkeley—jogged up with a stretcher from the plane. Once blood was flowing out of Daeng’s veins and into hers, they moved Orlando onto the stretcher, lifted her, and, with Daeng jogging alongside, headed quickly toward the aircraft.

  Quinn started to follow, but caught sight of Peter’s crumpled form and slowed, unsure what to do.

  Nate came up behind him, carrying the first-aid kit. “I know,” he said. “But we don’t have time.”

  Leaving Peter’s body seemed wrong. He deserved more than just being part of the carnage they were leaving behind on the island, but Nate was right. Orlando was in critical shape, and if she didn’t get medical attention soon, she would also die.

  Liz put a hand on Quinn’s arm and pulled. “Let’s go.”

  He took one last look at Peter before running with Nate and his sister toward the small jet.

  The moment the last person had climbed aboard, Nate yelled toward the cockpit, “Go!”

  In the back of the plane, Quinn knelt beside Orlando, took her hand in his, and gently squeezed it.

  “I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He searched her face for some sign that she’d heard him, but saw nothing.

  Moments after the plane’s wheels left the runway, Nate tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Quinn’s former apprentice said. “I don’t want to disturb you, but, well, it’s just that I’m not sure where to tell the pilot to go.”

  Nate had been held captive for several days on Duran Island, arriving there with a black bag over his head, while Quinn had come open-eyed, intent on rescuing Nate and the other men who’d been taken by Javier Romero.

  There was only one choice.

  “Isla de Cervantes,” Quinn said. The island was a short flight from Duran.

  “Okay.” Nate headed toward the cockpit, fighting against the incline of their assent.

  Under any other circumstances, Isla de Cervantes would have been out of the question. The events at Duran Island were deeply interwoven with Isla de Cervantes’s political history. Who knew how the authorities were going to react when they discovered what had happened on Duran? If they somehow learned Quinn and the others had been involved, and were still around, there would undoubtedly be questions.

  Hard, difficult questions.

  What Quinn and the others really needed was assistance from someone in the area, someone who could help cover their tracks. Quinn’s closest contact was Veronique Lucas, based an hour away in Puerto Rico. She had already proved incredibly useful by arranging for the plane they were now using. Maybe she had resources on Isla de Cervantes, too.

  The plane was equipped with several satellite phones. The nearest was in a small cabinet next to the bathroom. Quinn retrieved it and made the call.

  “Yes?” Veronique answered cautiously.

  “It’s Quinn.”

  “Quinn?” she said, happily surprised. “Is it martini time al—”

  “Veronique, I need your help.”

  “More?”

  “Orlando’s been shot.”

  The playful tone in her voice vanished. “What?”

  “We’re flying to Isla de Cervantes now. We need help. Fast.”

  “Can you bring her here?”

  “Too far. She’s…she’s not doing well.”

  “You’re flying into St. Renard’s?” The island’s main airport.

  “Unless there’s another place that would be better,” he said.

  “No, that’ll be fine. How soon?”

  “Fifteen minutes or so, I think. Not much more than that.”

  “I’ll have an ambulance waiting.”

  Quinn’s gaze flicked to Nate and the three other freed prisoners. “We have others who need medical attention, too.”

  “How many?”

  “Four, but none are as bad off as Orlando.”

  “Understood. So they could wait a little if they had to.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Let me—”

  “One other thing,” he said. “No one can know we’re there. It could get…problematic.”

  “You might want to tell me why.”

  Quinn hesitated for a moment, but knew if he really wanted her help, she needed to know. “Do you remember a man named Javier Romero?”

  “Hell, yeah. Kind of hard to forget.”

  He gave her the CliffsNotes version of what had happened on Duran.

  “Virgen Santa,” she said when he was done.

  “You could also do us a favor and have their navy pick up the boat of Romero’s soldiers that got away. Someone should go to the island pretty soon, too. We left Romero alive, but who knows what Janus did before he came after us.”

  “Okay. I need to get working.”

  “Thanks, Vee.”

  AS VERONIQUE PROMISED, an ambulance was waiting for them when they taxied to a stop.

  A doctor, nurse, and two EMTs rushed on board the moment the stairs were in place. Quinn tried to stay nearby as they examined Orlando, but one of the EMTs motioned for him and the others to get off the plane. The only one who was allowed to stay was Lanier. He had O-negative blood, which made him a universal donor, and had taken over transfusion duty from Daeng mid-flight.

  As the EMTs carried Orlando off the plane, Quinn caught Lanier’s eye, silently asking how the examination had gone. Grim-faced, Lanier tried to smile, but couldn’t pull it off. Once he and Orlando were in the ambulance, Quinn moved to climb on board with them.

  “No room,” the doctor said, motioning for Quinn to stop.

  “Make some,” Quinn growled.

  After the nurse and doctor exchanged a glance, the nurse scooted over so Quinn could squeeze in next to her.

  The ambulance raced from the airport, sirens blaring. Quinn figured they would probably head to Cristo de los Milagros Hospital. It was the largest on the island, and the same hospital he and Orlando had been in less than twenty-four hours before as they’d tried to track down information on Nate’s abductor. But instead of driving into the city where the hospital was, they turned onto a highway that circled around the edge.

  The neighborhood they ended up in was a quieter one just south of the capital, composed mainly of what appeared to be industrial businesses and warehouses. A few streets in, they passed through the gate of a walled compound, and stopped in front of a three-story, windowless structure near a double door entrance. Within seconds, the doors swung open and several people ran out, pushing a gurney.

  Since Quinn was jammed in at the very back, he opened the ambulance door and hopped out first. Lanier exited next. The EMTs had removed him from the transfusion tube during the ride.

  “Háganse a un lado,” a woman next to the gurney said.

  Quinn pulled Lanier to the side so they wouldn’t impede the others. Working in concert, the EMTs in the ambulance and the personnel outside carefully transferred Orlando from the vehicle onto the rolling bed. Once straps were secured across her torso, she was pushed into the building.

  Quinn grabbed one of the orderlies. “He needs help, too,” he said, motioning to Lanier before taking off after Orlando.

  He followed the gurney all the way to the surgical room door, but the staff would let him go no farther. Knowing it was useless to fight, he allowed himself to be escorted to a waiting room, where he pulled out his phone and called Veronique again.

  “How is she?” she asked.

  “They’ve just taken her into surgery.”

  “Did they give you any indication on her chances?”

  “No one’s saying anything.” He paused. “Who owns this place?”

  “No one you would know.”

  “Government run?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “They must know about it.”

  “They probably do,” she said. “But it’s a money generator. Most of the clients are from off island. You know, they come to get procedures done they’d rather their friends back home didn’t know about. So as long as the government receives its cut, it keeps its hands off.”

  “You’re sure we’re safe here?”

  “You’re safe. Trust me,” she said. “But I’ve gotta say, even if the authorities do find out who you are and what you did, they’re more likely to pin a medal on your chest than throw you in jail.”