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  For my wife, without whom there would be no Logan West.

  She keeps the family ship on course so I can wage this fictional fight. Without her, the ship sinks . . . the way Logan and John seem to sink every floating vessel they encounter.

  May the ship continue to sail ever onward through calm or troubled waters.

  One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.

  —original source unknown

  In times of war, the law falls silent.

  —Marcus Tullius Cicero

  PROLOGUE

  Quantico, Virginia

  Thursday, 0740 EST

  Crack-crack-crack!

  The rear windshield of the Ford F-150 shattered onto the backseat as glass was blown inward behind Logan West and John Quick.

  The raspy and harmonious voice of the Stone Temple Pilot’s lead singer filled the cab from the pickup’s surround sound stereo system. Once Logan West—former Marine Force Recon platoon commander, recovering alcoholic, and the head of the president’s Task Force Ares—had turned on the ignition, shifted gears, and floored the pickup away from the smoking headquarters building, the alternative rock band’s music had provided an audio backdrop to the unfolding battle. He hadn’t bothered turning it down as he’d fled the carnage, intent on only one thing—survival.

  More bullets tore through the cab and punched holes in the front windshield, the cracks of the rounds audible inside the truck.

  “Jesus Christ,” Logan said, as he reached out and hit the power button on the stereo, interrupting Scott Weiland midvocal. “I always figured you for more of a country guy. STP? Seriously?”

  “Hey, it depends on my mood,” John Quick—Logan’s second-in-command and former Force Recon platoon sergeant—said, and coughed, a sound that sounded tinny and hollow, concerning Logan. “I even like Eminem from time to time.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Logan replied. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “You better hope not, or we might be screwed,” John said, suddenly serious.

  “Hey, I’m blaming you if this gets really bad,” Logan said. “You could’ve at least had bulletproof glass.” He slammed the accelerator to the floor as more bullets peppered the bed of the truck.

  “It’s my personal vehicle, not my work one,” John said through gritted teeth. The pain from the gunshot was intense. “But if we survive this, I’ll upgrade it just for you.”

  Logan glanced in the rearview mirror and pulled his Kimber Tactical II .45-caliber pistol from his outside-the-waistband holster on his hip and handed the weapon to John. He glanced down and saw blood soaking through John’s shirt on the left side of his torso.

  Motherfuckers, Logan thought. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s not good, I can tell you that,” John replied, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. “But I don’t think I’m going to die in the immediate future.” He laughed as more gunshots roared behind them. “But what the hell do I know? I’m not a doctor.”

  “Good. Then do us a favor and shoot back at these bastards,” Logan said. “And if you do think you’re going to leave this mortal coil, let me know first. Just try to send a few of them ahead of you.”

  “Sure thing, brother.” John grimaced and turned in the passenger seat, resting his right arm over the backrest. The scene behind him was frightening. Amira. Please God, let her have escaped. They’d heard a gunfight in a different part of the building once they’d been separated, but after that—nothing.

  The black Suburban rumbled down the dirt road behind them, closing the distance to fifty yards. Beyond the Suburban, smoke billowed out of the two-story, rectangular red brick building that served as Task Force Ares headquarters.

  Having been created by the president to counter the global forces that had been waging a shadow war against the republic of the United States for the past two years, Task Force Ares was now under direct attack.

  John let loose with three shots, the roar of the .45-caliber pistol thunderous inside the vehicle. Spiderwebs appeared on the Suburban’s bulletproof windshield, and the Secret Service agent who’d been firing at them from the passenger side ducked back into the SUV. Probably reloading. Stick your head out again, asshole. Come on, John thought, and lined up the sights on the Kimber with the Suburban’s passenger mirror.

  Moments later, the black shape of an FN P90 personal defense weapon emerged from the vehicle’s window, followed by the head of the Secret Service agent wielding it. Gotcha, John thought, and pulled the Kimber’s trigger.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Two of the shots struck the agent in the face, shattering his black Oakley wire sunglasses and tunneling a hole into his brain, killing him instantly. The P90 fell from his fingers and on to the dirt road, cartwheeling into a resting place in the thick Quantico underbrush. The agent’s head bounced off the top of the door as the Suburban hit a patch of rough road. A pair of hands pulled the dead agent back inside the vehicle.

  “Nice shooting,” Logan growled, glancing into the rearview window.

  “I just killed a Secret Service agent. I’m pretty sure that’s a crime, and this is now officially a really bad day,” John said sarcastically, keeping the Kimber trained on the pursuing Suburban.

  “Fuck him,” Logan snarled, the anger threatening to take control of him. “In fact, fuck all of them. Before this is over, they’re all going to die, and then I’m going to personally kill their puppet master myself.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s high treason,” John said, but he didn’t doubt the sincerity in his friend’s tone—he knew better. Logan had sent many men to their graves. And they all deserved it. But this one? This might be a problem. “That might be frowned upon by pretty much the entire federal government.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Logan said. The betrayal had been complete. “We never saw it coming. I never saw it coming, not until it was too late. Thank God for Jake.”

  “This one’s not on you, brother. It’s all on him,” John said, his thoughts suddenly turning again to Amira Cerone, a fellow Task Force Ares teammate and his . . . What exactly is she to me? I know I’m head over heels for her. Since they’d returned from Sudan six months ago, their relationship had rapidly developed, but they hadn’t defined it. If anything happened to her . . . Lock it down. Now! He couldn’t risk his emotions, not with a bullet wound and a team of deadly Secret Service agents dispatched to kill them. “Did you see her get out?”

  “I couldn’t tell. I’m sorry,” Logan said in a low voice. “The smoke and flames—she was on the other side of them, before we got out of the SCIF,” he said, referring to the headquarters’ Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. “I’m assuming she and Cole escaped based on the gunfire we heard. No way they lose in a straight-up fight to these guys, no matter how good the bastards are.”

  “No doubt,” John said, knowing what his friend said was true.

  The entrance to the compound was now a quarter mile away, secured by a heavy iron, automated gate and security camera. The dirt road emptied out onto a two-lane road known as MCB-1, referencing the Marine Corps Base on which their clandestine compound was located.

  Nestled in the heavily wooded northern training areas of Quantico, it was an ideal location, only three mil
es from the FBI Academy, the HRT compound, and other resources that resided there. The site had been selected six months earlier after their first meeting with the president. With potential catastrophic results for the United States, their nameless enemy had nearly started a war in the Middle East and then attempted to pit the US against China by attacking a Chinese oil exploration site in Sudan with a hijacked US space-based weapon. Had it not been for Logan and his team, the state of the world—as precarious as it was—might have been a lot worse.

  “She’ll be fine,” John said, more to himself than to Logan.

  “She will be. I have no doubt about it,” Logan said as the tall gate grew closer. He maneuvered the pickup along the dirt road as the tires gripped the surface and kept the vehicle aimed toward the entrance. The Suburban had now dropped back to a safe distance. Probably didn’t want to risk another guy. Too bad. “But if we don’t lose these assholes, we may not be.” Twenty more seconds and we’re clear, Logan thought.

  “Did you have any idea they were with him?” John asked, the Kimber still trained on the trailing Suburban.

  “Not really. Not until Jake texted me back, but by then, it was too late. They were standing right there.” The flat tone of Logan’s voice expressed it all: it had been a masterful ambush inside their own headquarters, a magic trick of horrific proportions. It had happened too fast.

  “Can you call Lance?” Logan asked, knowing the head of the FBI’s HRT Red Team and his assembled team of shooters were only minutes away.

  “No bars,” John said, glancing at the encrypted iPhone he now held in his left hand.

  “They came prepared,” Logan said. “Check the antennas on the roof. See if the Kimber will do anything to them, although I doubt it.”

  Logan had wondered why the detail had brought the electronic countermeasures Suburban. Now he knew. Fuckers are going to pay.

  “Goddamn boy scouts. Always prepared,” John replied, and opened up again with carefully aimed fire.

  The bullets ricocheted off the Suburban’s dome-shaped antennas, leaving small dents but causing no significant damage. Of course not, why would that work? Nothing else has gone right today, Logan mused to himself. While they’d managed to escape after the confrontation, Logan couldn’t be sure about the rest of the team since all of their communications equipment had been jammed.

  The weapon emptied, and John turned around in the passenger seat to eject the magazine, only to see Logan’s outstretched right hand holding a second magazine loaded with hollow-point ammunition. He dropped the spent magazine to the floor of the pickup, inserted the fresh one, and pushed the slide release, slamming it forward and chambering the first round. He aimed the weapon once again out the rear windshield, looked at Logan, and asked, “What now?”

  “We’re in keep-it-simple territory. Once we hit the road, we haul ass down to the Academy and get the FBI police in on the fun,” he said, referring to the uniformed division that protected all FBI facilities. “But my guess is these guys will break contact rather than risk exposure. The hard part is getting there. So be ready for anything,” Logan said. He reached up to the visor and pressed a button on a sleek, slim device that resembled a space-age garage door opener.

  The black steel, reinforced crash gate slowly began to slide to the right fifty yards in front of the speeding white pickup. Almost there, Logan thought, his muscles tight with the tension from the confrontation at the compound and the escalation of violence over the last two days.

  Thirty yards . . . twenty yards . . .

  The sliding gate had exposed nearly half the road, almost enough to allow the pickup to clear the opening.

  We’ve got this, Logan thought, a glimmer of hope materializing through the battle fatigue he wore like a heavy cloak.

  But just as suddenly, the glimmer was eclipsed by a second black Suburban that pulled in front of the entrance, perpendicularly blocking their escape.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” John said, disbelief and despair in his voice.

  “Hold on,” Logan ordered, and slammed down the brakes of the pickup. The vehicle slid to a halt in the middle of the dirt road, stopping ten yards short of the open crash gate. A cloud of dust kicked up behind the truck, but Logan spotted the chasing Suburban come to a halt twenty yards behind them. Driver doesn’t want to get too close. Coward.

  “This isn’t good,” John said.

  He’s right. There’s nowhere to go. The woods are too thick on each side to drive through. No way forward or backward—we’re boxed in. No, we’re screwed, Logan concluded.

  Logan’s encrypted iPhone began chirping from the cup holder, and “Unknown” flashed across the screen.

  “Bet you three pints of blood that’s our friends. They turned off the jammer to call us. What do you think? Should I answer it?” Logan asked.

  “The last time you answered a call like this, it triggered the hunt for that cursed flag,” John said. “That was not a good time, even with our vacation in the Sand Box,” he finished, referring to the chase for a tactical nuclear weapon that had been acquired in order to attack Iran and start a new conflict in the Middle East.

  “True, but we’re already in it now, brother.” Logan laughed, his predatory bright-green eyes blazing as they watched the Suburban that blocked the gate. “What more could go wrong?”

  Without another moment of hesitation, he grabbed the iPhone and answered. “What do you want?”

  “What do you think we want?” said a cool, calm voice that reminded Logan that even though these were lethal adversaries, they were still elite warriors and professionals. Special Agent Motherfucker, of course. He knew they wouldn’t be dissuaded. “The list, pure and simple.”

  Logan didn’t hesitate. “It burned up in the fire.”

  “I don’t think so,” the head of the detail said from the Suburban behind them. “There’s no way you would have left your headquarters without it. You know what’s on it, and so do we. You grabbed the thumb drive. I saw you do it, through the flames. This isn’t a negotiation. I’m not going to beg you to give it to me, but what I will do is tell you what’s going to happen: You have thirty seconds to open your door, get out of the vehicle, and walk toward us. If not, we’re going to light you up with RPGs. It’s that simple—give me what I need or die. You have thirty seconds to comply.” The line went dead.

  “I told you not to take that call,” John said in mock exasperation.

  “I know, but I didn’t—” was all Logan had time to say. His phone rang again, this time in the harmonious tune of chiming bells—Sarah. Bad timing, babe.

  But he answered, knowing it might be the last time he talked to his wife, and he needed to ensure her safety.

  “Sarah, I need you to listen to me,” he started, speaking quickly and firmly. “I need you to execute the E & E plan,” he said, referring to their personal plan to go off the grid in the case of an emergency and link up at a predetermined location later. While he was not overly paranoid, the events of the last few years had taught him to be prepared. “Do you understand? And I need you to do it right now. John and I have some trouble at work, and I don’t know if we’re going to make it.” He thought he heard a slight intake of air on the other end. Way to stay calm, babe. It’s one of the many reasons why I love you.

  Fifteen seconds to go . . .

  Logan and John watched as the side panel of the Suburban at the gate opened, revealing a crack of the dark interior, which was illuminated as the opposite-side door slid open. To vent the back blast. These guys are serious, Logan thought.

  “Logan . . .” John said with growing concern.

  “Sarah, I love you, and I’m sorry if I can’t meet you there. But no matter what—know that I tried. I really did, babe.”

  Ten seconds . . .

  “Logan,” Sarah said through a voice thick with emotion, “I’m pregnant.”

  Silence. The countdown stopped momentarily in Logan’s head. He felt—literally, physically—a momentary disem
bodiment, as if his reality were no longer his but someone else’s. How can this be, God? Why now, of all times? To find out I’m going to be a father moments from my death. You’re a cruel taskmaster, you sonofabitch. A swirl of emotions consumed him in a flush of feeling.

  Five seconds . . .

  Before Logan could lose himself inside his own head, John shouted, “We’re almost out of time! Do something, goddamnit!”

  Logan’s mind crashed back to reality at his best friend and brother-in-arm’s beckoning. He instantly realized the only option he had left. It’s suicide, the rational part of his mind screamed. Shut the fuck up. We’re doing this my way, the Wild West way. No more talking.

  “I love you, Sarah. You’ll be an amazing mother. I have to go,” Logan said, and did the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life—disconnected the call as he heard the only woman he’d really loved say, “I love you, too. Fight hard.”

  No other way, babe. I’m not going out with a whimper.

  Zero . . .

  The Suburban’s side doors were now wide open, and another Secret Service agent held an American version of an RPG, aimed directly at them.

  His iPhone rang again, and “Unknown” once more appeared on the small screen. Giving us another chance? Fuck you.

  “Are you ready, brother?” Logan said, his voice steady, his hands tightening his grip on the steering wheel, the roiling rage he’d been fighting for six months ready to be fully unleashed.

  “Fucking A,” John replied. “And congratulations on becoming a dad. I love you, brother.”

  “Ditto.” There was no time left to talk. The two warriors had reached the end of the proverbial and literal road.

  Logan reached forward and pushed the power button on the stereo, twisting the dial to the right. Fuck it. Might as well go out with a little music just for the occasion.

  “Here we go,” Logan said, and gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Buckle up and enjoy the ride. It’s going to be a rough one.”