I check my watch. “We should get moving if we want to get to that village before the sun sets. Then we can rest up, maybe get something to eat.”

  Jeremy kicks another rock. “Ollie and I failed. I don’t care if the sun sets, rises, or stays up in the sky for twenty-four hours straight. I’m still hunting down Rashad.”

  “Good,” I say. “I’m glad to be part of the hunt.”

  Jeremy stands up, weaves for a moment, and says, “What’s that?”

  I check my MP5 out of routine, making sure the safety is off and that the burst indicator is set for three rounds, meaning that with each pull of the trigger only three 9mm rounds will be fired downrange.

  “You’re not going to do this on our own,” I say. “You’re tough, smart, and you’re SAS, even if you’ve been detached to MI6. But at some point your reserves will be tapped out. You’re going to crash. And I’ll be there to pick up the pace.”

  He shakes his head. “No offense, Amy, but no. I’m doing this on my own.”

  “No offense taken, Jeremy, but this is still my op. We’re still out in the field, and as per our orders, we are definitely responding to an emerging threat. You’re working for me.”

  Boy, does his face darken. “I don’t want you—I don’t need you. This is going to be very dangerous work.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, you can’t imagine. And again no offense, but you’re a woman, and you’re going to slow me down, and—”

  There’s movement behind him and I swing and rotate hard, kicking Jeremy behind his right knee.

  Chapter 16

  THE SWORDSMAN has reached his destination, tired but thankful that God has saved him once more. After the gunfire broke out and before he could have beheaded the second arrogant Englishmen, he had raced to the near wall and vaulted over it, landing heavily on the ground. But parked nearby was a black Kawasaki KLR650 dual-sport motorcycle. As the Western fighters headed into the compound, he had pushed the motorcycle away in the other direction, taking cover behind the parked pickup trucks.

  Once he was far enough from the farmhouse and courtyard, he had started the motorcycle and followed a rough and bumpy road to a better-quality road. Finally reaching a paved two-lane highway, he had joined other motorcycles, trucks, and cars, passing donkeys and horses pulling carts.

  Now he is in the village of Tlayleh—small one- or two-story homes and businesses, crowded narrow streets—and he lowers the motorcycle’s speed to a crawl. He turns down one alleyway, then another. There is a locked roll-up corrugated metal door, and with a key retrieved from the motorcycle’s rear leather pouch, he unlocks the door and pushes the motorcycle in.

  He closes the sliding door behind him, turns, and opens another door leading to the interior of the ground-floor apartment.

  It’s plain but clean and comfortable, with a living area, well-stocked kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom.

  The swordsman goes to the center of the living room and strips off his scarf, robes, and filthy white cotton trousers, and then the padding around his belly and shoulders that had made him look like an older, heavier man. He picks everything up in a ball, goes to the kitchen, and dumps the stinking materials in a trash bin.

  From there he goes into the bathroom, uses the toilet, and takes a long, hot, and very pleasing shower, making sure the small bandage on his right wrist remains dry. At first some of the water is rust brown, washing off the dried blood of the British soldier he had killed, but then the wash water gets clearer. When he gets out he trims his beard and combs his dark hair and, once it’s dried, goes into the bedroom and its closet. From there he takes down a gray tailored suit from Camps de Luca in Paris and a white cotton shirt from Cairo. The swordsman takes his time getting dressed, at last putting on a pair of Testoni shoes from Milan.

  There.

  Ready to proceed with the rest of the day.

  He goes through the apartment one more time, checking that all is in place, then takes a side door into a concrete garage, its floor smooth and spotless. He gets into his Mercedes-Benz S550, starts the engine, presses a little box attached to the overhead visor, and gently moves out into the traffic of Tlayleh.

  And instantly slams on the brakes.

  A little girl—barefoot, dirty, wearing a tattered red dress—has run into traffic to retrieve a scraggly gray kitten.

  She looks up, fearful.

  He pauses, the heavy engine rumbling. This particular S550 had been rebuilt and heavily armored by Russian Spetsnaz troops up the coast in the Syrian post of Latakia, where they had a thriving black-market business retrofitting and armoring vehicles for those making a fortune in the ongoing troubles in Syria and elsewhere.

  The little girl gives a hesitant wave.

  He smiles and waves back.

  She runs back with her precious cargo in her hands, into the streams of people walking, talking, and selling along the street.

  He continues on his way, checking the clock in the S550’s interior. If all goes well, he’ll be in Tripoli in under two hours. From there he will head south to Beirut, then make a flight north.

  If all goes well.

  It hadn’t gone at all well back at the farmhouse. The second British soldier was about to be killed when a rescue team burst out of the hills nearby, killing the holy warriors around him.

  That had not been part of the plan.

  That had not been anticipated.

  Ah, he thinks, so what?

  Rashad Hussain heads his luxury car west, knowing that one man’s death wouldn’t make much of a difference—especially since he was going to achieve a hundred thousand times more than that in less than a week.

  He continues his drive, pausing only once in the first hour when he finds a herdsman and his goats blocking the Halba-Qoubaiyat Road just outside Halba.

  Rashad needs to make his schedule, so he guns his Mercedes and runs through the herd, crushing and crippling at least a dozen screaming animals before his way is clear.

  God willing.

  Chapter 17

  ERNEST HOLLISTER is in the large and comfortable office of his immediate boss, retired U.S. Army General Malcolm Rooney, supervisor of the Agency’s Special Activities Division. For some reason, Rooney likes to keep the lights in his office dim, almost at twilight, so the only real illumination comes from his computer screen and the old-fashioned green-glass desk lamp that casts a soft glow over his wide and neat desk.

  “I spent so much time in the goddamn desert, the sun beating down, I needed a break,” was Rooney’s explanation to Ernest months ago, and Ernest had left it at that.

  Once, back in the desert and flat plains of Iraq, Rooney had cut a slim and taut figure, jogging and working out every morning, which earned him a few positive news articles and a television piece about the older general setting an example for his younger troops. But once the heady days of the Iraq invasion slipped into that damnable long night of insurgency shootings, bombings, and beheadings, the news media lost interest in positive stories—and in General Rooney.

  He now has a prominent gut that hangs over his black leather belt. He hardly ever keeps his necktie tight and knotted, leaving his shirt collar unbuttoned and the tie dangling down.

  He pauses in his pacing and says, “That’s a very disturbing development, Ernest, concerning that Cornwall woman. Thanks for bringing it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The pacing begins again. “I don’t like it, I don’t like it all. When folks in the field go rogue, exceed their orders, go against their planning, well, I don’t like it. And the folks up on the seventh floor, they like it even less.”

  In the dim shadows of the bookcase-lined office are a pair of couches and coffee tables, plus lots of framed photos of the general in his military career and his subsequent career in the Agency. Lots of grip-and-grin photos with past Secretaries of State and Defense, along with current ones of Senate and House leaders, none of whom Ernest would trust to run a frat-party weekend.

  The pacing stops.

  “But I trust you, Ernest. I rely on you…the president, when I was selected, he told me of changes he wanted to make within this division. Hard choices and hard decisions have to be made. But I’ve always counted on your judgment, to protect…the Agency and its interests.”

  Ernest nods. Perhaps his boss doesn’t know it yet, but Ernest knows he’s already won.

  “Are you sure this must be done?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ernest says. “She and this British soldier are acting without authorization, going against a restricted target.”

  One more pace that ends at a midway point, then Rooney is done and sits down at his desk.

  “All right, then,” his boss says. “To smoke someone…it means a lot, doesn’t it?”

  Ernest says, “It means the field operative is no longer in our employ. There are no records of her being here. Her telephone and Internet access are removed. All of our stations around the world are ordered not to respond to her, nor to assist her. It’s as if she never existed as part of the Agency.”

  Rooney picks up a pen, scribbles on a notepad. “It will happen before the end of the day, then, Ernest.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ernest says, rising from his chair. “It will be for the best. Trust me.”

  “But what you just said…you indicated Cornwall and this British soldier, they are going up against a restricted target. Explain.”

  “We have preliminary intelligence that this British soldier is on his own, going after one of our assets.”

  “Have you informed your MI6 counterpart?”

  Ernest thinks, I’m trying, but the limey SOB won’t answer my calls.

  “That’s currently in the process, sir,” he says.

  Rooney looks tired. “Who is this asset?”

  “His code name is BROKER. He’s a quiet, behind-the-scenes man who has performed many services for us. It seems like this rogue SAS soldier has a personal vendetta against him, and that he’s persuaded Cornwall to go along.”

  Rooney says, “But wouldn’t it make sense not to smoke Cornwall, so we can track her movements?”

  “That would be too much of a risk, sir,” says Ernest. “Cornwall and the Brit may have already killed our asset. Better to remove all trace of her having worked for the Agency.”

  Rooney nods and asks, “What’s the asset’s real name?”

  “Rashad Hussain,” Ernest says.

  Chapter 18

  AFTER I kick Jeremy’s tired and injured legs out from underneath him, he falls flat on his back on the jagged and torn rocks. I’m sure he cries out or curses me, but I’m too busy to hear him. Three militants, terrorists, jihadists—whatever, three bad guys with AK-47s—are bolting around a large boulder about two meters up the trail, and with Jeremy on the ground I get a clear shot.

  POP POP POP.

  My first three-round burst hits the lead gunmen right in the chest. He falls back, almost toppling his near mate, but that second man swivels and with one hand sends a burst of AK-47 fire at me, which misses me but hits a nearby rock berm, chipping off an impressive amount of stone splinters.

  I fire off another three-round burst, catching him in the shoulder and head, and he spins and drops.

  The third guy is one cool customer. Instead of praying and spraying, holding out the automatic rifle in both hands and emptying the magazine in one long burst, he drops to one knee, brings up his AK-47, and gives himself a second or two to take proper aim at his target, i.e., me.

  But I’m faster and squeeze the trigger on my MP5.

  Nothing happens.

  It jams.

  I throw my now-useless weapon at him, hoping to spoil his aim, and fall to the left, using the bodies of his fellow shooters as a quick and dirty barrier. I draw out my SIG Sauer P226 pistol and snap off a quick shot just as the chatter-chatter of the AK-47 starts.

  My quick shot misses.

  So does the second one.

  The guy moves his rifle, starts chewing up his former allies to try to get to me, and I fire off one more round.

  It takes him down via his scarf-covered forehead.

  I get up, moving to the side, going up the trail a couple of meters, looking to see if they have any more friends or shooters following them.

  Nothing—not even a goat.

  I quickly return, strip them of their AK-47s, and toss the weapons over the side. I find something interesting on the utility belt of the first gunmen, then get to Jeremy.

  He’s gritting his teeth and is on one side, holding his MP5 in the approved prone position, looking up at the trail.

  “Clear?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “but I’m not too sure for how long. Here.”

  I toss the item I took from the belt at him, and he grabs it with his left hand. It’s a Uniden handheld radio. Jeremy gives it a quick check, then tosses it behind him.

  “We’re being tracked,” he says.

  “True.”

  I look around the rocks and trail, find my H&K MP5, and pick it up. Discovering an expelled 9mm cartridge case jammed in the extractor, I manage to work it free. I then work the action to ensure there’s a live round in the chamber.

  Jeremy’s working to get up, so I sling my MP5 over my shoulder and give him a hand.

  “That was quick action,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  “I see what you did,” Jeremy says. “No time for a warning, no time to push me away. You give one hell of a kick.”

  I look up the trail again, glad to see there’s no movement.

  “You should see how I move in heels.”

  He smiles and says, “Your shooting was quick, too. How did you know they weren’t three lost sheepherders?”

  I check my watch, look down the trail, think I spot a road in the flat distance. That would be nice.

  “Muscle memory, I guess,” I say. “I saw the shapes pop up, saw the AK-47s in their hands…and their stance. They weren’t being cautious, and they weren’t approaching with their weapons held casually. They were getting ready to open fire.”

  “Glad you shot first.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Them, not that much. Let’s get going.”

  “Agreed.”

  Chapter 19

  TOM CORNWALL’S office, on the thirtieth floor of One World Trade Center, has a grand view of the Hudson River and the far New Jersey shoreline. Although he will readily admit to anyone—save for his wife, Amy—that he has a number of faults, he does possess discipline when it comes to his work.

  So most days the grand view is at his back as he gets busy at his cluttered desk. There’s a standard company-issued computer terminal at his elbow, and on his desk are two separate MacBook laptops, each using a different encrypted system to allow him to romp around the wilds of the internet without being easily traced. He also has an office phone, his personal cell phone, and two burner phones he gets from a nearby Duane Reed and uses for a couple of weeks before throwing them away.

  At Criterion, Tom’s beat is terrorism, defense, and national security, which is pretty ironic, considering that’s also his wife’s beat, though hers is more up close and personal.

  There are bookcases, piles of newspapers and magazines on the floor, and a number of family photos of Tom alone, Tom with Denise and Amy, and one of Amy alone, back when she was in the Army, stationed at an FOB in Afghanistan, wearing battle rattle and smiling for the camera.

  The rare visitors to his office always ask the same two questions: Is your wife still in the Army?

  Answer: No.

  What does she do now?

  Answer: Security consultant.

  And that would always be that, unless someone presses him and asks, “Well, what exactly does she do?” His stock answer to that has always been the same: “Makes enough money so I can be a kept man.”

  But today’s kept man is working hard on his developing story.

  He looks up at the clock.

  9:00 a.m.

  Right on the dot.

  He takes out a small notebook he keeps in his leather carrying case, flips through the pages, finds the number he needs. With burner phone one in hand, he dials the number.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  “Yeah?” comes the answer, and Tom can hear machinery in the background.

  “It’s Cornwall. What do you have?”

  The man says, “There’s some sort of deployment, I know that. Assets are being reassigned.”

  “Where?”

  “Right now it’s the Atlantic coast: Boston, New York, New Jersey, Baltimore, Norfolk, and Jacksonville.”

  “What kind?”

  “Recovery and relief,” the man says. “Like somebody’s expecting the hurricane season to start early. Or maybe it’s just a planned drill I know nothing about. Yet.”

  A couple of horns sound. “Gotta go.”

  “Thanks,” Tom says, clicking off the burner phone.

  The man he just talked to is an executive in the Defense Logistics Agency (DLA). Tom had met him years back in Iraq at its main port of Basra, when Tom was desperate to find a battery for his laptop. The man had helped him out, and when the man shyly asked Tom for advice about his teenage son, who wanted to be a journalist, Tom had helped the kid out with article critiques and college recommendations.

  The guy had never forgotten—and had been a good source ever since. As Tom learned a long time ago, military amateurs talk strategy but professionals talk logistics, and when it comes to preparing for war or something else, the DLA provides everything from blankets to bullets.

  So what’s up?

  Then there’s a bleep on one of his open MacBooks, and his iMessage chat logo begins to blink.

  Talk about timing.

  He double-clicks on the icon, goes into the program, sees who’s calling him, and starts typing.

  TOM: Hey, how’s it going?

  YURI: Trying to survive. You?

  TOM: In NYC, living the dream. Where are you?

  Tom waits with a smile, knowing his correspondent would never, ever tell him where he was.