Pak stared at the man. The facts he had laid out regarding the events at the ICC were easy enough to check on. There had been whispered references made to it over the years, but like most things here, when something went wrong, it was covered up. If this was the man responsible, it could mean death, though it might prove he was who he said he was.

  An extremely valuable asset.

  Pak had never been to the ICC but he was well aware of it. It was an essential part of his country’s successes over the decades, and if this man could help recruit more “volunteers”—even he was amused by that—his country could benefit a lot. And all that was needed was to allow this man to live here as one of the elite, on his own funds, while he rode out the collapse of his own nation—something long predicted by the great leaders that had ruled them.

  American and Western decadence and greed would be their downfall.

  And apparently, it was finally happening.

  “I’ll take your requests to my superiors. They’ll determine what to do with you.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “You’ll get a taste of what awaits you should you be lying.”

  “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  6 |

  Director Morrison’s Office, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  “You look like shit.”

  Leroux dropped into a chair in front of Director Morrison’s desk, feeling as described. “I guess it’s official then. My team agrees with you.”

  Morrison chuckled though regarded him with concern. “Are you sure you’re well enough to be here? If Dylan has indeed defected, then there’s not much we can do in the next twenty-four hours. Another day of rest might do you good.”

  Leroux shook his head. “No, I have to be here, working the problem.”

  “And what do you see as the problem?”

  “That there’s something else going on here. There’s no way Dylan has defected. It’s impossible. But…”

  “But?”

  Leroux pulled out his phone and brought up the message, handing it over to his boss. Morrison read it, his eyebrows climbing, and he cursed as he returned the device. “I want a copy of that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That seems to confirm it, though, doesn’t it?”

  “On the surface.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well, if he wanted to make his story convincing, he’d want us to all react in just the way we are.”

  “Which is?”

  “Shocked. Surprised. Panicked.”

  “So, what do you suggest?”

  “Let my team do its job. Prove it one way or the other.”

  Morrison pursed his lips and said nothing as he stared at Leroux. Leroux shifted in his chair. “There’s something you need to know.”

  Leroux tensed as the other shoe was about to drop. “What?”

  “I received a message from Dylan as well. It was sent the moment we received the footage.”

  “What did it say?”

  Morrison put on his glasses then tapped at his phone. “It says, ‘If you’re going to kill me, send the best you’ve got otherwise the blood will be on your hands.’”

  Leroux’s shoulders sagged. “Are we reading this all wrong? I mean, could he have actually defected?”

  Morrison tossed his glasses on his desk. “Every single piece of evidence we have suggests that he has. I have no choice but to assume he actually has, and that means there’s only one course of action I can follow.”

  “Termination.”

  “Exactly. He knows too much. I have no choice but to send in a team to take him out.”

  “That’s a high-risk operation, sir. He’ll be held in a high-security area, for sure. Getting in will be difficult.”

  “Yes, it is, which is why I want your team trying to determine what is really going on. In the meantime, I’m putting a team in to take him out. You have until they’re in position to prove me wrong.”

  Leroux closed his eyes. “Who are you sending in?”

  “I’m taking Dylan’s advice. I’m sending in the best we’ve got.”

  “Who?”

  “Bravo Team.”

  7 |

  Vander, North Carolina

  “Here you go, little man.”

  Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung’s eyes bulged as the sonofabitch of a friend tossed a box at him from the back of the moving van. He caught it square in the chest like the shock from a defibrillator, and promptly fell on his ass on the pavement. “Ow!”

  Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James snickered. “I thought you said you could carry anything I could carry.”

  Niner pushed the box off his chest and onto the driveway before rubbing at his now sore ribs. “I said carry, not catch!” He rose and brushed off. “What the hell was in that thing?”

  Atlas shrugged. “Books, I think.”

  “You threw a box of books at me?”

  “And you caught them like a girly man. Did I bruise your ego?”

  “You bruised my ribs.” Niner rubbed his butt. “And my ass. I’m going to have Angela check me out tonight, and if there’s any damage to this perfect specimen, I’m sending photos.”

  “I don’t want to see your bruised ass.”

  “I’m not sending them to you. I’m sending them to your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not going to want to see that narrow little ass of yours either.”

  Niner’s girlfriend, Angela Henwood, stepped out onto the porch of Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman’s in-laws’ new home. “Are you two fighting again?”

  Niner dropped his pants and aimed his ass in her direction. “Look what he did to me!”

  Angela batted a hand. “You two really need to get a room and put the question to rest once and for all.”

  Atlas’ girlfriend, Vanessa Moore, joined her. “What now?” She cringed as she raised a hand to block the view. “Niner! Put that thing away!”

  Niner pointed a finger at Atlas. “He started it.”

  “I don’t care. If you two don’t get back to work, I’m gonna finish it. Now pull your pants up before you get a spanking.”

  Niner grinned. “Told you she wanted to see it. Now she wants to touch it.”

  Atlas shook a fist. “Pants up or I’m strapping you to the top of the truck and leaving you there.”

  “You always want to tie me up. I think she’s right. Let’s get a―”

  Atlas held up a finger. “Don’t you dare say it.”

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson emerged from the house with Spock. “Niner! Pants up! We’ve got boxes to move!”

  Niner pulled up his pants then picked up the box of books, tossing them to Spock with a grunt. Spock caught the box easily, an eyebrow cocked.

  “Is this how you treat my in-laws’ things?”

  Niner stabbed his finger at Atlas again. “He started it.”

  “Don’t make me finish it!” yelled Vanessa from inside the house.

  Dawson laughed as he hopped into the back of the truck and handed out several more boxes before jumping down and grabbing another left at the edge of the door. They all filed into the house, Spock’s mother-in-law directing them after reading each label. Niner headed upstairs with his box, narrowly avoiding a collision with Spock’s excited daughter as she rushed down the stairs, clearly delighted about the room that would be hers when she stayed here.

  Spock’s wife Joanne had been killed recently in an attack by the Russian mob, and while retribution had been taken, nothing was bringing her back. Spock had talked it out with the family, and Joanne’s parents had agreed to move closer to Fort Bragg so they could watch their granddaughter while Spock was deployed. It allowed him to stay in the Unit and provide a stable home for his daughter while he was out protecting her and her country from those who would do them harm.

  They were 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta, commonly known to the public as Delta Force, and the entirety of Bravo Team was here today helping with the move. It had been hours, but they were almost done, and it was worth it to keep their friend as part of the team. There had been some doubt in Nigeria about whether he would stay on, but the mission had convinced him the work he was doing was necessary.

  Niner couldn’t imagine how difficult a decision it must have been. He didn’t have children, though Angela had indicated she’d like some eventually. It was too soon for an honest talk about that, but now that the relationship was serious, and appeared to be heading in the right direction, these things needed to be discussed in general—there was no point in wasting a year or two together to find out they wanted fundamentally different things.

  He wanted children. Lots of them, though two would probably be enough of a handful. Whatever they were blessed with, he’d be happy. He just wanted a family. Desperately now that it was in sight. He had resigned himself long ago to dying a bachelor—he just wasn’t good with women. But Angela made it so easy. She got his sense of humor and enjoyed it rather than just tolerated it. And he could be himself around her without always being the class clown.

  He wanted to start planning a future that included a wife and kids.

  He was ready to settle down.

  But he still wanted to kick ass for his country—he couldn’t see that changing any time soon.

  “Anybody home?”

  Niner gave Spock a confused look, the widower’s eyebrow shooting up to his hairline. “Is that the colonel?”

  “Yes, sir!” shouted Spock as he rushed down the stairs to greet their commanding officer. “Sir, you’re always welcome, but I didn’t expect you to help with the move.”

  Colonel Thomas Clancy chuckled as Niner joined the growing group of warriors at the front door. “I’m afraid I’m here on business, gentlemen, not moving duty.” Clancy turned to Dawson. “Sergeant Major, I need to have a word with you. In private.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dawson stepped out of the house with Clancy then turned. “Hold off on the beer until I get back.”

  A round of exaggerated complaints followed him out the door and Niner turned to the others. “Well, we better get this done quickly. When the colonel shows up personally, you know it can’t be good.”

  8 |

  Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  Leroux entered the operations center and the team fell silent as all eyes turned to him. He dropped into his chair, exhausted, then turned to his team with a heavy heart. “I just met with the Chief and it isn’t good. Dylan messaged him as well.”

  “What did he say?” asked Tong, her voice gentle.

  “He basically told the Chief to send the best we’ve got to take him out, otherwise any blood will be on the Chief’s hands.”

  “Holy shit!” muttered Therrien from the back of the room, the others murmuring their shock as well.

  “The Chief is dispatching Bravo Team to take him out. Unless we can prove Dylan is innocent before they’re in position, they’ll execute their orders.”

  Child cursed as he spun in his chair. “Which means they execute him.”

  “Yes.” Leroux sighed. “Have we found anything?”

  Tong nodded. “We found out how he got on the bridge. He chartered a plane then jumped in from high altitude. It allowed him to skirt the civilian no-fly zone and land on the bridge, bypassing Southern security.”

  “And prove to his new hosts what he’s capable of, lending credence to any story he tells them.”

  Tong lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. “I had a thought.”

  Leroux pushed his chair closer with his foot. “What?”

  “You said you got a message from Dylan, and now the Chief has as well.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you both received them after he was identified in the footage provided by the South Koreans.”

  “Right. Your point?”

  “Well, how is he sending them? I mean, even if they end up believing him, there’s no way they’ve let him keep his phone. He can’t be the one sending the messages.”

  Leroux’s jaw dropped at the obvious revelation. She was right, and the fact it hadn’t occurred to him was further confirmation he wasn’t ready to be running an op.

  His stomach rumbled. He was hungry again, another indicator his body was on the mend despite his mind wallowing in fog.

  Tong smiled. “You should go to the cafeteria and get something to eat. I’ll have the team start tracing those messages. We need to find out not only how he’s sending them, but also how whoever or whatever is sending them knows when to.”

  Leroux stood. “Good thinking. Take over for a while. I’m going to get some food then a few hours rack time. I’m useless.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered.”

  He flashed her a grateful smile through his mask and headed for the door. “Sonya’s in charge until I return.” He groaned as he stepped out into the hall. “If I return.”

  I’m totally weak.

  9 |

  Ministry of State Security Headquarters Pyongyang, North Korea

  He could fake it, but to what end? He was here to prove he was Dylan Kane, super-spy, and pretending to be exhausted, to giving in to their interrogation techniques, would simply demonstrate he wasn’t who he said he was. They would know he had been trained for situations like this, and sleep deprivation and bright lights would do little to break him.

  He had to have patience, and everything would work out. For now, he was in a cold, damp cell in the basement of the Ministry of State Security Headquarters used for people like him. They hadn’t laid a finger on him, but everything was loud here. Every cell door that opened or shut was done with gusto. Boot heels slammed on concrete floors with extra vigor. All orders were shouted.

  It was impossible to sleep.

  Unless you were trained.

  So, he slept like a baby.

  He was still a little jetlagged, though he had been in South Korea for two days making the final arrangements for his defection. The several hours of restful sleep he managed while he waited to hear his fate from his captors-soon-hosts was only interrupted by a nightmare involving Fang. She was what he would miss the most while here. There was no hope of bringing her here due to her status with North Korea’s greatest ally, China. And he’d miss Leroux and the others as well, and obviously his family. It was a major sacrifice, but worth it.

  It better be worth it.

  He was giving up a lot by doing this, not to mention risking his neck. If the North Koreans decided he was full of shit, or not worth the bother, he’d be dead, though not before days, weeks, or even months of torture.

  Footfalls echoed then came to a halt on the other side of the cell door. He sat up, straightening himself as the key hit the lock, the mechanism clicking loudly like everything else here, and Major Pak entered.

  Kane stood. “So, what’s the verdict?”

  Pak frowned. “They don’t believe you.”

  “That’s not good. What can I do to convince them?”

  “You will be interrogated by specialists over the coming days. You will tell them everything they want to know, and they will be verifying everything you say. A single lie, and you die. Slowly.”

  Kane rolled his eyes. “That’s amateur stuff and you know it. Don’t ask me your standard questions. I’m a spy, my knowledge is highly compartmentalized for a reason. I can’t tell you the names of other assets or operatives inside your country, or ways to hack Langley, because I don’t need to know those things. I’m given a mission with very narrow parameters and just enough intel for me to succeed. That’s it. But, over the years, I’ve made it my business to know who knows what in case I ever need a question answered. And quite often those people are not known to the public, and you can’t just call them up. You have to beat their security then talk to them in person.”

  Pak regarded him skeptically. “And I’m sure they’re willing to talk to some stranger who broke into their home or office because of his winning smile?”

  Kane laughed and wagged a finger at Pak. “I like you. I think in time we’ll be friends. But to answer your question, yes, they are quite willing to talk. They’re usually isolated, alone, and only have their work. They’re thrilled to talk to someone on the outside. America and its allies have hundreds if not thousands of these people working for them in top-secret facilities around the world, working on things you couldn’t possibly imagine. And I can give you access to them.” He tapped his chin. “How about this? Forget interrogating me under bright lights. I could screw with you for days and you’d never know. Instead, test me. Let me get you someone you need, and that will prove not only my worth, but my sincerity.”

  Pak pursed his lips, staring at him. “And just who did you have in mind?”

  Kane smiled. “You have a failed nuclear power program, don’t you?”

  Pak shifted slightly. “What makes you think it is a ‘failed’ program?”

  “You don’t have a single functioning plant despite working on this since the fifties. I’d say that’s a failed program.”

  Pak lowered his voice slightly. “If you intend to make this your home, you must learn to never refer to any state program as failed.”

  Kane smirked. “Politics. I understand that. The thesaurus aside, how about I tell you the exact person you need to jumpstart your program, and how to get him here.” He leaned in closer. “Tomorrow.”

  10 |

  Vander, North Carolina

  “Let’s take your car, but I’m driving.”

  Dawson laughed at Clancy’s statement. “Never lose that sense of humor, sir.”

  Clancy chuckled and headed for the passenger seat of Dawson’s pride and joy, his 1964½ Mustang convertible in original poppy red, inherited from his father. He loved this car and babied it like she deserved to be.