Jack made his way to the 14th Street PATH station. Bought a ticket and got on a train to Newark. The trip took twenty minutes, and they stopped twice along the way. He exited the train at the Newark Penn Station and rented a room at the Penn Station Hilton in between Raymond Blvd and Market Street. He’d stay there for the night and leave for West Side Park late the next morning.

  7

  Clarissa leaned over the waist high wooden railing. She stared up at a wall of mountains. Snow covered ski trails cut through dark tree croppings like glacial rivers. A large full moon hovered just beyond the mountain’s crest. The cold, crisp air stung her cheeks and nose. The smell of wood smoke persisted both day and night throughout the alpine themed ski village known as Vail, Colorado.

  When Sinclair offered her the opportunity to take a vacation she had said yes before he finished speaking. She hadn’t had a day off in six months. The only condition was that he accompany her. Not in a romantic way, though. Sinclair didn’t appear to have those types of feelings for her. He had become a father figure and only sought to protect her. She didn’t resist.

  The past six months had gone by in a whirlwind. It had been for the best. If she had stayed behind in New York she would have spent her days and nights thinking of one thing and only one thing. Jack. But four-and-a-half months of intense training, physical and mental, kept her occupied eighteen hours a day. An hour a day had been reserved for showers and eating. The five hours that remained were for sleeping. She had been left with no time to think of anything at all. Jack had become a fleeting thought.

  Sinclair oversaw her training, although he was not always around. He still had his duties to the team. The men and women who handled her training had been strict and competent. They expanded her already broad knowledge of martial arts. Taught her both Spanish and Russian. And schooled her in the ways of being a special agent.

  Immediately upon completion of training she had her first assignment. Infiltrating a strip club in Miami. The place was one of the nation’s largest cocaine distribution points. Her background as an exotic dancer made her the perfect under-cover agent. It only took her six weeks to take the operation down. Sinclair had been impressed and that, she figured, was why she had been offered the week-long vacation.

  She stared at the top of the mountain range. The moonlight reflected off of the fresh snow. Her thoughts turned to Jack. All she wanted was to spend a month with him. Just the two of them. Her eyes watered at the thought of never seeing or smelling or touching him again. Never hearing his voice again. Never kissing his lips again. She wiped away the tears and brought the wine glass to her lips. The merlot had turned cold and bitter. She drank it anyways.

  A knock on the door saved her from delving any deeper into her thoughts.

  She opened the sliding glass door and stepped into her suite. Crossed the room and opened the front door. She smiled at Sinclair, who stood there holding a bottle of wine and two white styrofoam to-go boxes. One smaller than the other.

  “Missed you at dinner,” he said.

  Clarissa stepped back and sideways and gestured Sinclair into the room.

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “No worries,” he placed the boxes on the counter and opened them. “I brought you a sandwich and two slices of cheesecake.”

  “And some wine.”

  “Well, you are on vacation. Can’t ever have too much wine.”

  “Agreed.”

  She grabbed the sandwich and a paper towel. Took a seat at the small rectangular glass table that sat off to the side.

  Sinclair pulled out the second chair and opened the bottle of wine. He refilled her glass and poured one for himself.

  Clarissa unwrapped the sandwich. “A Reuben. My favorite.” She took a bite and fluttered her eyelids at the taste of the Russian dressing that flooded her mouth.

  Sinclair took a sip from his wine glass and set it down. He stood and walked to the back of the room. Opened the door. Closed it. Walked back to the table.

  “What is it?” Clarissa asked, sensing his frustration.

  “We have to leave tomorrow.”

  “Where to?”

  “Can’t say just yet.”

  Clarissa sat her Reuben down. Wiped her mouth with a napkin.

  “Guess that means the vacation is cut short.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “You told me about Miami a week in advance.”

  He sat back. Watched her for a minute. “I thought you needed the mental preparation.”

  “And now?”

  “I think you’ll be able to prepare on the flight.”

  “To where?”

  “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

  She threw her hands up in defeat and stood up.

  “Why’d you even tell me then?”

  “To give you time to mentally prepare.”

  She refilled her glass and crossed to the back of the room. Stepped out on the balcony. The moon had risen considerably higher in the sky during the time she had been inside. It now was small and close to its zenith. Its light was as strong as ever, though, and the packed snow shimmered in the distance.

  The door opened and closed behind her. Sinclair’s footsteps reverberated below her. She turned and smiled as she leaned back against the wooden railing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have badgered you.”

  He looked down at the ground with a smile on his face. The moonlight reflected off of his gray speckled hair.

  “Maybe I should have waited until morning. It’s just that, well, this is big, Clarissa. Very big. I hesitate to send you.”

  “You know you can’t come out here and say that without cluing me in more.”

  He set his wine glass down and clasped his hands together.

  “There is a Russian terrorist organization that is growing at an exponential rate inside the U.S. Not all the members are Russian, of course, but the primary leaders are. The group has ties to some very powerful people in Russia, as well. There are several cells in several states throughout the country. We believe we have identified the leader. You will need to infiltrate and get close to one of the leaders. He might even be the main leader.”

  Clarissa straightened her back and crossed her arms.

  “You knew, didn’t you? All along. That’s why I learned Russian.”

  Sinclair nodded and said nothing.

  “What are the stakes?”

  “War. Terrorist attacks. Suicide bombings. Dirty bombs. Psychological terrorism. This isn’t a case of someone who sticks out like a sore thumb blowing a bomb up on a bus. Mary Jo Smith from Heartland, America could detonate a bomb in the middle of her church.”

  Clarissa sat her wine glass down on the railing and rubbed her face with both hands. Then she blew into her hands and rubbed them together in an attempt to warm them. Her gloves were inside but she didn’t break the conversation to get them.

  “I’m the one, then?”

  “You are the one. The whole reason I chose you was for this. There was always a chance that the group would slip up and rat themselves out. That hasn’t happened. We do have some intelligence to go by, though, and that intelligence tells us that now is the time to move.”

  “And by get close to one of the leaders, you mean—”

  “Yes. We need to make use of every asset you possess, my dear.”

  “And by any means possible.” She shuddered at the thought at first but quickly set it aside. “I’m ready, Sinclair.”

  8

  Bear and Mandy walked hand in hand down East Main Street toward the Knoxville branch of the First Bank of Iowa. The town had started to feel like home to Bear. Certainly more so than when they had moved there six months ago. The air was cold and crisp and the sky was clear and blue. The storms of the previous week had passed and the streets and sidewalks had been cleared. Kids played outside on snow covered lawns. They really could not have asked for a better spring break. Except to be somewhere warmer.

  “What do you say we get on a plane and go somewhere for the rest of the week?” Bear said.

  “Nah,” Mandy said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got plans.”

  Bear straightened up and puffed out his chest.

  “Oh, you’ve got plans, have you?”

  He was happy to hear her say that. For the first three months she hadn’t talked to anyone but him, and even then she hadn’t said much. Mostly “yes” and “no” and “thank you.” It turned out their neighbor was a child psychologist. She had started working with Mandy three months ago.

  Bear had to tell the woman some things about his life and Mandy’s life. He had been hesitant to do so, but the psychologist insisted that anything he said would be kept confidential. He doubted that. But he took a chance and assumed that the bad people in his life were people that she would not know. He told her as much as he could, but had to remain vague on most things, leaving out any details that could incriminate him.

  She came over twice a week. The routine was always the same. She spoke with Bear for fifteen to thirty minutes and then she spent an hour or so with Mandy. He noticed a slight improvement the first two weeks and then every session seemed to bring Mandy further and further out of her shell. And now she was a regular social butterfly.

  Weekends were packed with friends and movies and sleepovers. School nights resulted in arguments about Mandy needing to hang up the phone or turning off the computer and her instant messenger in order to go to bed. Bear never imagined that he’d be a father and was surprised at how easily he had adapted to the role.

  There were still moments where he was concerned. Moments where her face became dark and sullen. But those moments were becoming few and far between.

  Mandy smiled and said, “Yes, plans. I’ll tell you when we get home so you can mark up your calendar.”

  Bear laughed.

  “What?”

  He let go of her hand and wrapped his big hand around her shoulder. Pulled her close. They passed the Marion County courthouse and the frozen water in the fountain at the foot of the front steps.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Lawyers,” Bear said. “Bad people,” he added with a laugh.

  “Lawyers are bad?”

  “No, honey, they aren’t. Most aren’t, at least.”

  She shook her head and muttered something under her breath.

  “Hungry?” he asked as they passed in front of a small diner that served pancakes twenty-four hours a day.

  She patted her stomach and looked up at him. “Yes.”

  They entered the diner and took a booth by the window. He sat with his back against the wall and she sat opposite him. He placed his cell phone on the table and she reached across and grabbed it.

  “Don’t be calling China,” he said.

  She giggled and pressed the touch screen. “Just playing a game.” The words drawn out and exaggerated.

  Bear stood and stretched. He looked down at her.

  “Going to the head. Don’t move. And don’t call China.”

  She giggled again.

  He returned a few minutes later to the little girl with her face buried in his phone. He sat down.

  “Did you order me a coffee?”

  She shook her head. Didn’t lift her eyes.

  “Hey,” she said. “Why do you call the bathroom a head? That’s really weird.”

  He waved her off. “It’s an old military thing.”

  A young blond haired waitress came to the table. Bear ordered coffee and a tall stack. Mandy ordered orange juice and five silver dollar pancakes.

  Mandy continued playing video games on the cell phone while they waited.

  Bear studied the street and the people and the cars that passed. Some habits die hard. Some habits shouldn’t die at all. He knew that. He also knew that the moment he became comfortable would be the moment that something bad would happen. So he stayed alert. He stayed vigilant.

  The waitress brought their food and they ate without talking. Then they left the restaurant and resumed their walk to the bank. Bear checked his phone and saw that the time was quarter till noon. They wouldn’t beat the lunch rush. The pancakes were worth it, though.

  They reached the bank at five till noon. Bear held the door open for Mandy and ushered the girl through. The line to the tellers snaked through all four roped off rows. They stood at the end of the line. Bear reached inside his jacket for the envelope and then dropped his hands to his side. He felt Mandy’s small hand slip inside his. The touch was cold at first, but quickly warmed up.

  “Well, look who it is,” a voice said from behind them. The voice was old and raspy with a hint of deepness.

  Bear and Mandy turned. Bear smiled at the man he knew only as Mr. Jones. The old man was their neighbor on the side opposite the psychologist and he had become as much a fixture in their life as she had.

  “How are you, Mr. Jones?” he asked.

  “Tired of the cold, and tired of being old. But it could be worse.” He winked at Bear and turned his attention Mandy. His hand slipped into his pocket and he pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “Here you go, sweetie. You can add this to your deposit today.”

  Mandy took the money and giggled. “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

  Bear said, “You didn’t have to do—”

  Mr. Jones waved him off. “What am I going to do with it? Don’t have grandchildren of my own. Ah, hell, you know that already. I won’t bore you with my stories.”

  “Well, maybe not here in the bank, but how about over dinner tonight? Our place?” It felt natural to invite their elderly neighbor into his home. And Bear found it strange that it felt so natural.

  Mr. Jones smiled and nodded. “Thank you, son.”

  Bear smiled back and squeezed Mandy’s hand in his own. He looked around the bank lobby at the customers and the tellers and personal bankers. He realized that he knew half the people in there. He had never known or felt a sense of community before. He took a deep breath and let the calm of the room wash over him. He felt relaxed. He felt at ease. He felt that they had found a place they could call home. A place he could raise Mandy. A place where their pasts could not find them.

  Maybe it was the calm. Maybe it was the sense of community. Maybe it was the relaxed feeling. Whatever it was, Bear didn’t realize until it was too late that the five men who had just entered the bank were wearing ski masks and were armed and were shouting at everyone to get down on the ground.

  And when he and Mr. Jones didn’t get down right away, the man in the middle fired a single shot. The single shot hit Mr. Jones in the back. He fell forward into Bear’s arms and Bear lowered himself and Mr. Jones to the ground.

  9

  Feng lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. The TV played in the background on a twenty-four hour news station. The same thirty minute feed had played for the past two hours. He tuned it out and counted spots and stains and water marks on the ceiling. A knock at the door broke his concentration.

  He got up and walked to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Fletcher. Open up.”

  The old man flipped the lock to the left and pulled back the security latch. He opened the door and nodded at Fletcher.

  “Time to go.”

  Feng turned to gather his things.

  “Leave everything. Get it when you come back.”

  “We’ll be returning then?”

  Fletcher shrugged.

  “Right, then. Well I need to gather the documents your boss needs then, don’t I?”

  “Grab only the documents. And hurry.” Fletcher stepped into the room to prevent the door from shutting.

  The old man grabbed his briefcase, sunglasses and his jacket. He pushed past Fletcher and stopped in the hall. Fletcher let the door slam shut and led Feng down the hall to the elevator. They entered the elevator, rode down to the lobby and then crossed the empty entranceway. A black Range Rover waited outside the hotel lobby’s front doors.

  As they pushed through the front doors, a man got out of the front passenger seat and opened the back door.

  “No limo this time?” Feng asked.

  Fletcher didn’t respond. He held his arm out and gestured for the old man to take a seat.

  Feng climbed into the backseat and strapped the seatbelt over his shoulder. He said nothing to the men in the front of the car and they said nothing to him.

  Fletcher opened the other back door and climbed in behind the driver’s seat. He strapped in and placed a pistol on his lap.

  “It should go without saying,” Fletcher said. “But don’t try anything. I will shoot.”

  The old man felt his cheeks grow hot and his eyelids narrowed. He bit back the anger. He’d make sure Fletcher would pay for the way he had treated him. But now was not the time and Feng was not a young man. He couldn’t take on Fletcher by himself. He had men who would handle it for him. Or maybe even bring Fletcher back to New York so he could show him just how gracious a host he could be. Feng’s reach and control over so many were what made him powerful. Not brute strength.

  They drove west on I-88 and merged onto I-80 heading westbound at the Illinois and Iowa border. They drove for another ninety minutes and exited short of Des Moines on a road that Feng didn’t catch the name of. He did see a sign for Newton, Iowa, though the name meant nothing to him. A little while later he saw a white sign with a black border and with the number fourteen painted in black. They crossed a mile long bridge over a lake and then two shorter bridges. After the second bridge, they passed a sign that said “Welcome to Knoxville, Iowa. Dirt Racing Capital of the World.”