“Madam Vice President,” she says, speaking loudly as the other Secret Service agents push away her dining companions. “Can you hear me? Madam Vice President? Can you hear me?”

  A door slams open and four Secret Service agents run in ahead of members of MERT (Medical Emergency Response Team) carrying canvas bags of medical gear shoving people aside.

  Harrison gets up. “Alamo had a coughing fit,” she says. “Collapsed. She’s breathing and has a steady but weak pulse. But she’s unresponsive.”

  The lead medic says, “Okay, she’s ours,” as bags get unzipped and monitoring equipment, a green oxygen bottle, and other gear is swiftly removed.

  “Amy, this is Marianne,” she says, speaking into her wrist microphone.

  “Marianne, this is Amy,” comes the quick reply. “Status?”

  “MERT is on scene. We’re going to need transport soonest,” she says.

  “Ambulance and escort vehicles are already at the rear kitchen entrance,” the Secret Service agent says. “We have a gurney and three Las Vegas Fire Department EMTs en route, they should be there in about a minute.”

  “Roger that,” she says, catching her breath. Whenever Alamo or the president, known as Sierra, go to public events like this, her agency always ensures there’s a trauma unit within a ten-minute drive.

  She catches the eye of Agent Frank Chan. “Frank, everything on this table is evidence. Alamo might have been poisoned. Guard it until the FBI gets in here.”

  “Roger that, Marianne.”

  Harrison brings her wrist microphone up, takes a breath. “Rudy, this is Marianne,” she says, calling the agent in charge of covering the hotel’s kitchen area.

  “Marianne, this is Rudy, go.”

  “Shut down the kitchen. Nobody leaves or enters, none of the food or scraps or dirty pots and pans get touched. Understood?”

  “Yes, Marianne.”

  “I don’t care if the chef or the restaurant manager go apeshit, nothing leaves, enters, or gets touched in there.”

  “Understood,” he says.

  Marianne stares at the table, at the uneaten food—prime rib or salmon—and the overturned glassware.

  Failure, she thinks. Something’s happened to Alamo. A strong, athletic woman like that collapsing and going right into unconsciousness, with no warning?

  What just happened here?

  A medical emergency?

  Or an assassination attempt?

  BULLETIN

  LAS VEGAS (AP)—Vice President Laura Hernandez was rushed to the University Medical Center hospital here after collapsing and becoming unconscious at the Waldorf Astoria on Las Vegas Boulevard South.

  Witnesses told reporters at the scene that the vice president had a spell of loud coughing before falling to the floor of a private hotel dining room. Secret Service agents and EMTs from the Las Vegas Fire Department provided immediate assistance before she was transported at 5:46 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.

  Her current condition is unknown.

  —MORE—

  CHAPTER 22

  Washington, DC

  PRESIDENT KEEGAN BARRETT is working late again in his quiet and small office on the second floor of the White House. A tray with the remains of his dinner—a simple egg white omelet—is on the coffee table in front of his old desk as he works through a thick file that two hours ago was couriered over to him from Langley.

  Like his predecessors, Barrett is working on a list whose name has changed over the years, with its recent, innocent permutation being the Disposition Matrix. But no matter how much lipstick one puts on this bureaucratic pig, it is still known as the “kill list,” those enemies of the United States who had been determined to be an imminent threat, and who, upon Barrett’s signature, would imminently receive the latest version of a Hellfire missile in their lap.

  But Barrett’s personal “kill list” has widened, ever since he set up the two CIA teams under the direction of Liam Grey and Noa Himel, and their initial confidential reports back to him have been encouraging.

  Yet he knows, deep down, that his window of opportunity to strike first against his country’s enemies may close at any time. What the various pundits and experts, generals and admirals who still want to fight the last war don’t understand is how damn flexible and pinpointed one has to be in this new age. Army armored divisions, squadrons of Air Force bombers, and fleets of Navy ships are huge sledgehammers, ready to kill and destroy at a moment’s notice.

  But today you have to be precise, you have to be quick, and, most of all, you have to be quiet.

  And then there’s the iron confidence and will—which he’s had for decades, urged on by a whisper that he was unique—that he was put on this Earth to do great things.

  Which is why he is working so diligently at this late hour.

  He reads again the summary of this update, prepared by a team of analysts back at the CIA who are still personally loyal to him, and who didn’t feel it was necessary to go through official channels to supply the detailed information he needs.

  This update regards one of the biggest banks in South Korea—BK Financial Group—and how for years it’s been secretly bypassing and undercutting the many financial embargoes in place against their neighbor to the North. Even though North Korea is a sworn enemy of Seoul, for years this bank has been using distant branches and other financial cutouts to help Pyongyang launder the funds it’s stolen from cyber phishing attacks or received from slave laborers sent to China or Siberia, or for coal shipments successfully smuggled to Russia or China.

  For years there have been stern messages, complaints, and warnings to Seoul that something must be done to stop BK Financial Group’s work in propping up North Korea, but nothing has happened. The various governments of Seoul—who have depended on the BK Financial Group for its campaign contributions and other largesse—have denied the accusations, or promised to “look into it,” or have claimed that the rogue bank’s actions have ceased.

  Enough, Barrett thinks, as he puts the file aside for later action. He mutters, “We keep thirty thousand men and women stationed there…about time you paid the piper.”

  And as he considers how the piper will be paid—a concealed cyberattack to permanently erase the bank’s electronic records, or something old-fashioned like a wayward cruise missile blamed on the South Korea military landing in the main bank’s front lobby—the door opens and Carlton Pope, his special assistant, comes in.

  “Yes?” he asks, taking another thick file folder from the pile on his desk.

  “The vice president has landed at Andrews,” he says. “She’s being transported to Walter Reed at this moment.”

  “Good,” he says. “What’s her condition?”

  “Still in a coma,” Pope says. “Unresponsive.”

  “And her husband and children?”

  “Air Force transport will be bringing them later tonight to Andrews, and I’ll have the Secret Service take them to the hospital.”

  “Good,” Barrett says, opening the file folder.

  Pope says, “We have a statement ready for release. Do you want to look at it?”

  “Is it good?” Barrett asks. “Do you vouch for it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pope says.

  “Then give it to the press office, have them release it as soon as they can,” Barrett says. “I’m busy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pope says. “Is there anything else?”

  Barrett gestures to the coffee table. “Yes. Get rid of that, all right?”

  Pope nods, grabs the dinner tray, leaves his office, and Barrett resumes his work.

  One thing he’s learned over the years is the importance of picking good people and letting them do their job, whether it’s returning a dinner tray to the White House Mess, or crafting a press release, or putting a bullet in the head of an enemy of the United States.

  CHAPTER 23

  Isla la Bonita, Venezuela

  IT’S A PERFECT sunny day on the Caribbean Sea as Liam Grey gently maneuvers his large paddleboard off the sandy coast of Isla la Bonita. This tourist resort in Venezuela is one of its few places worth visiting as its government keeps on learning the harsh lessons of running an economy into the ground. Liam wishes he could relax in these warm waters, but he can’t, since he’s deep in work, although any observers out there would have a hard time thinking so.

  Which is just perfect, he thinks, as he keeps on slowly paddling, sitting down on the board like he’s tired. He’s been here on this small island for a week, his dark-brown hair dyed blond, working on his tan and enjoying the nightlife, fitting in with the British, European, and other travelers attracted to these beautiful beaches, waving palm trees, and the ridiculously low prices as the struggling government in Caracas tries to attract more foreign dollars.

  Including, he thinks, as he slowly paddles, other visitors who aren’t from Britain or Europe, and who don’t care much about the beach bars, restaurants, palm trees, and beautiful Venezuelan women.

  On the paddleboard is a small black knapsack. Liam removes a bottle of water, takes a satisfying sip, and then grabs a pair of binoculars, gives a quick glance to the rocky promontory at the end of the tourist beach. There’s a stone cottage with four black SUVs parked out front, and for the past week, Liam’s worked to keep it in view.

  The house looks empty, since there are no tourists out there, sunning themselves on the large rocks or splashing around in the tide pools or playing volleyball. Or driving along the dirt road that runs through a collection of boulders and rocks, emerging onto the single-lane paved road running parallel to the beach and the tourist cabins and bars.

  No, no tourists.

  Just an outpost of the Hezbollah terrorism empire.

  He puts the binoculars back into the bag, which is secured to the paddleboard by a set of Velcro straps. He recalls the briefing he received from the president two weeks ago.

  “This cell has been active there for at least eighteen months,” President Barrett said. “They support drug smuggling, kidnappings for ransom, and killings of tourists, and have attacked numerous diplomatic, military, and business targets throughout Central and South America. Various protests and diplomatic notes haven’t caused Caracas to expel them and send them back to Lebanon. I leave it up to you and your team, Liam. Get the job done.”

  A pleasure, he thinks. Hezbollah’s been on both the official and unofficial CIA hit list for more than forty years, ever since the terrorist group kidnapped the Agency’s station chief in Beirut and tortured him nearly daily for a year and a half before killing him and dumping his remains on the side of the road.

  Ever since then, those assassinations, air strikes, and car bombings against Hezbollah usually blamed on Mossad actually came from their cousins in Langley, though it was never officially or unofficially reported from Washington or Jerusalem.

  Some at Langley have very long memories.

  Including Liam.

  A voice comes to Liam in a flesh-colored earbud via an Agency-owned fishing vessel barely visible on the northern horizon, encrypted with the Agency’s latest communications equipment. “Liam, you on station?”

  “I am,” he says.

  Benjamin Lucas, one of his operators back at Saint Petersburg, says, “We’re ready, but you need to know there’s a Venezuelan Navy patrol boat snooping around about two miles away. If we’re a go today, it’s gotta be in the next few minutes.”

  Liam checks his watch. “All right, let’s start the countdown. At the mark, now…two minutes.”

  “Two minutes, roger that,” Benjamin says.

  Liam takes out a small instrument that looks like a monocular device used by birders, but this device is just a bit more advanced and complicated. He turns it on, checks its vitals as it hums into action, and Benjamin says, “One minute, Liam.”

  “One minute, roger that,” Liam says, stretching out on the paddleboard like he’s trying to relax for a moment, the monocular device in his hands.

  “Starting countdown,” Benjamin says. “Fifty seconds.”

  “Fifty seconds.”

  “Forty.”

  “Forty seconds,” Liam replies, bringing up the monocular to his right eye. A light-green reticle with a cross appears, and he adjusts it so that it’s aiming at the near window of the cottage. Interior and advanced GPS software ensures it remains centered on the target, even with the motion of the waves against the paddleboard.

  “Thirty seconds,” Benjamin says.

  Liam repeats, “Thirty seconds,” and his finger goes to the trigger.

  Something’s wrong.

  A flash of movement catches his attention.

  What?

  He lowers the monocular device, grabs the binoculars, looks over at the target. A white minivan is coming to a halt near the house.

  The doors open.

  Four young, laughing women emerge, wearing wide-brimmed straw hats and sunglasses and carrying towels and beach bags.

  A slim, bearded man wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt and long pants emerges from the stone cottage, waves, smiles, and goes back into the house.

  One of the young women waves back, and the four women pull coolers out of the van.

  “Fifteen seconds,” Benjamin says.

  Liam says, “Break, break, break. Abort, say again, abort.”

  “What?” comes Benjamin’s stunned voice.

  “Abort,” Liam repeats. “We have civilians on scene.”

  Benjamin says, “Liam, we don’t have time.”

  “We’re aborting.”

  “Liam, that damn patrol boat is coming our way.”

  Liam says, “Handle it. It’s an abort.”

  Benjamin curses and Liam starts paddling, as fast as he can, to the rocky beach where the terrorist cell is located.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE MOTION OF the waves helps Liam as he gets closer to shore, and when he’s a meter or so distant, he leaps out, furiously wades in, quickly dragging the paddleboard up onto the rocks and jumping from rock to rock and over the sand to get to the dirt driveway.

  There.

  The small knapsack is over his back and he moves up the dirt road toward the four young women, dressed in bikinis and sandals with wraparound skirts. He yells out, “Hey, chicas. Wait up!”

  One of them turns and replies in English, “Hey yourself.”

  He comes closer, smiling, and says, “Look, you don’t want to go there.”

  The one who talked to him smiles in return, shakes her head. “What business is it of yours?”

  Liam says, “I know those guys. They’re…they’re just lousy. Hairy, don’t bathe, treat nice ladies like you like dirt. C’mon, my buds and I, we’re having a party in an hour, over at Las Tres Loros. Trust me, you’ll have more fun with us.”

  Two of the young women start talking quickly in Spanish. Liam knows the language, but not this fast. The apparent lead woman says, “I’m sorry, amigo, we have made a promise here…and…”

  She’s ashamed, and Liam knows it. He’s embarrassed for her and her three friends, for what they have to do to stay alive in this country teetering on financial and economic chaos, store shelves empty, lines for gasoline miles long, pharmacies barren of drugs.

  Damn it, he thinks, there’s no time.

  There’s just no time!

  He says, “Look, we’re all adults. And I don’t want you to get hurt…”

  Liam unzips a side pocket, pulls out six one-hundred-dollar American bills. He takes a step forward, pushes it into the near woman’s hand. “Take this. See you at Las Tres Loros. All you have to do is have a meal with us, some drinks, and laugh at our bad jokes and bad Spanish. Honest. Please.”

  The woman looks at the money, talks quickly in Spanish to her companions, and they move back to the minivan.

  She says, “The man here…Abdullah. He’ll be angry. He might come after us.”

  Liam says, “Go. If Abdullah comes out, I’ll take care of it. Go.”

  He steps back, watches with satisfaction as they get into the minivan. The engine starts, backs up, makes a U-turn, and heads back down the dirt driveway, kicking up a trail of dust.

  Liam starts moving and a man calls out, “You! Senor! Stop!”

  The man is the same one from before, slim, bearded, long-sleeve black T-shirt and long pants, and thick eyebrows knotted in fury.

  Liam holds his hands out. “Hey, I’m just leaving. Have a nice day now!”

  He stalks to Liam and takes out a knife from a belt scabbard. The blade is shiny and looks sharp. “What you say, have a nice day? You took away our whores.”

  Liam says, “They changed their mind. That’s all. Why don’t you take a walk and cool down?”

  Time, he thinks, time.

  “Walk?” he yells. “I walk into you!”

  Liam holds up his hands—not high up—and says, “Hey, hey, hey—”

  The Hezbollah man lunges, Liam spins sideways, and as the knife hand goes by, with his right hand, Liam grabs a shirt-sleeve, twists it, and with his left elbow, breaks the man’s nose.

  He cries out, falls to his knees, and Liam—still holding tight to the sleeve—hammers the man’s wrist on Liam’s knee.

  The knife falls to the dirt.

  Liam picks it up.

  Shoves it hard up into the terrorist’s left armpit, where the axillary artery is located, and Liam draws it up and out.

  The Hezbollah man gasps, tries to speak.

  Blood spurts out from the severed artery that supplies blood to the arm and fingers and is now supplying blood to the dirt road.

  Liam wipes the knife hilt on the man’s T-shirt, drops it on his chest.

  He leans over and whispers, “In a couple of minutes, you’re going to be dead, alone in Venezuela, compliments of the CIA.”

  He runs back down to the rocky beach, splashing into the water, pushing the paddleboard out. With fast and hard strokes with the paddle—still sitting down—he gets beyond the swell of the waves, turns, and faces the stone cottage.