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  For Sergeant Terry O’Hara, 9/11 responder and NYPD officer (1976–2017); Betsy Harrigan, retired NSA employee and author (1945–2017); and Joan Digani, mother, wife, sister, and aunt (1950–2015). While their fights are over, the battle wages on. As Terry said every time I talked to him, “Fuck cancer.” Amen, brother. Someday, we’ll all dance on the Big C’s grave.

  PROLOGUE

  Calvert County, MD

  Charlie Reker didn’t care for county officials. As far as he was concerned, the local politicians were just as power-hungry as the corrupt parasites that occupied the Capitol twenty-five miles to the northwest. Many a day he’d half-heartedly hoped that some lucky terrorist might figure out a way to blow up Congress and the morally bankrupt people it contained. The only reservation he had—the one that mattered most to him—was the innocent loss of life that would result. And that was something he couldn’t abide, no matter how bitter he was toward the federal government.

  A fifty-three-year-old mechanic with a rough face, short grizzled beard, and cropped black hair, he owned a four-bay, full-service garage in rural southern Maryland. But thanks to the moronic lawmakers and the last president, his income had significantly declined over the past several years due to the Affordable Care Act, which was a fucking lie of a name, if there ever was one, hand to God, he thought. In addition to his lowered earnings, he’d also been forced to lay off his best mechanic, a young man who had a talent for quickly identifying any problem that plagued an engine, no matter how small or complicated the cause. The kid had been excellent—not as good as Charlie, but still great, nonetheless.

  But the cost of the limited health-care plans in Maryland had shot up exponentially, and the financial burden had been more than he could bear. As with every other ill-conceived government plan, there’d been one more unforeseen effect: he’d had to increase the number of hours he worked every week just to make ends meet. It infuriated him, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. The septic tide would turn at some point, God willing.

  It was also why Charlie didn’t care that he’d violated the law six ways to Sunday in the middle of summer for the past three years, hunting for deer with a Stryker Katana 360 crossbow, the easiest hunting weapon he’d discovered and come to love as much as he loved anything. I dare them to come out and find me. Fucking park-ranger Rambo wannabes. I’ve been playing in these woods longer than those baby-faced Ranger Ricks. He hadn’t even put on an orange vest for safety. Who the hell else would be out here, anyhow? The nearest neighborhood was two miles away. He figured the biggest risk he had was getting bitten by a snake or having another tick lodge itself in his nether regions, the way two had done last year, scaring the living daylights out of him when he’d showered after a twenty-four-hour period in the woods. Unfortunately for Charlie, he was wrong.

  The dense woods were hot and humid, alive with the midmorning sounds of insects and small, energetic animals. With the canopy of shade from the thick pine and oak trees, the heat was tolerable on the forest floor. He felt a sharp, not-so-mild pain as one of the region’s aggressive deerflies landed on the back of his neck and bit into his sweaty flesh.

  “Goddamnit!” he swore, releasing the front of the crossbow to swat at the angry creature. His green-gloved hand hit the flying annoyance, and he turned around and looked down to see the large deerfly struggling on top of the leafy underbrush. He brought a brown boot down on top of it to stop its flailing. Great. Hope I don’t get that stupid disease that rhymes with anemia, he thought, not able to recall the exact name of the rare disease transmittable to humans and fatal if left untreated.

  A movement through the trees twenty yards to his right redirected his attention, and he placed his left hand on the foregrip, lifting the weapon. What the hell? There was a sudden noise from behind him, and he whirled on his heels, adrenaline pumping.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Don’t shoot,” a man said, wearing a full-blown 3-D tree suit like the ones Charlie had seen advertised in Cabela’s magazine. His face was darkened with green shades of camouflage paint, disguising his features other than the whites of his eyes. He wore a backpack that blended in with his tree suit, but he also had a rifle slung across his back.

  Is that an AR-15 painted brown? Charlie thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone hunt with an AR-15, but at this time of year? It was one thing that he was out here with a crossbow—he wanted to be quiet while he stalked through the woods—but an AR-15 would draw attention immediately, no matter how far the nearest neighborhood was. Someone always hears the shots. But then he saw the suppressor at the end of the barrel, angled toward the ground for easy access. His mind registered the pistol in a thigh rig, which was when he heard another noise to his left, and a second figure emerged from behind a tree, triggering alarms in the back of Charlie Reker’s mind.

  Charlie raised the crossbow, the tip of the bolt subtly shifting to the feet of the first intruder, which was how his mind cataloged the two men. “Who the hell are you? Why are you out here?”

  “I could ask you the same question, friend,” the first man replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. Another noise from Charlie’s right coincided with the appearance of a third figure, a man in similar hunting garb—That’s not quite right; it’s tactical clothing, like those boys in the military wear that I saw on the History Channel—who now stood silent next to a dying oak tree, blackened and mortally wounded by a bolt of lightning.

  “Who the hell are you people? You’re not from the county, are you?” Charlie asked, the hairs on the back of his arms and neck vibrating in alarm.

  “I’m afraid not,” the man replied, a hint of regret underpinning the words. The man looked to Charlie’s right and nodded.

  Charlie sensed the movement and tried to turn, and panic gripped him as he swung the crossbow to his right. He heard two sounds like loud mechanical bangs, and his momentum faltered. He looked down and saw dark wetness spreading in two places on the right side of his chest. Weakness slammed into him like an invisible hand, and he collapsed to his knees, the crossbow falling to the dark, dank earth.

  Charlie Reker suddenly felt tired, and he realized the end of his life was at hand, but rather than let it slip away, he felt a brief, burning sense of fury course through him. He’d been a fighter his entire life, and he wasn’t about to go out with a whimper. His killers would hear his voice before he died. He turned back to the first man, even as the edges of his vision dimmed. “Why?”

  “Because you were here,” the man replied matter-of-factly. “Nothing more. I’m sorry, if it’s any consolation. I promise you one thing: we’ll make sure your body is found so your loved ones can lay you to rest.”

  Because I was here? “Damn you to hell,” Charlie coughed, with precious seconds left in life. “Murderers always pay, and you will too.” They were the last words he uttered, and a moment later, his lifeless form toppled sideways, coming to rest next to a pile of leaves from the previous fall.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” the man responded to no one in particular.

  “What do you want to do with him?” Charlie’s executioner asked, the suppressed AR-15 slung across his back once again. He bent down, picked up the two empty cartridges, and placed them inside a cargo pocket on the right side of his
tree suit trousers.

  “Nothing,” the first man replied. “We leave him here, and when our mission is over, we notify the authorities. I just made a promise to a dying man whose only misfortune was to cross our path, and I intend to keep it.”

  “Agreed,” the third man said.

  “Good. Now let’s get going. We still have a mile before we get to our assembly area. Then the hard part begins,” the first man said.

  “What’s that?” the second hunter of men asked.

  “The waiting,” the first man replied. “It’s always the goddamned waiting. Now let’s move.”

  Without another word, the three men in full tactical gear formed a single Ranger file and moved silently through the trees, leaving Charlie Reker in his temporary resting place deep in the Maryland woods.

  PART I

  SHARKS AND MINNOWS

  CHAPTER 1

  Caracas, Venezuela

  The pain of his little girl was all that mattered. He knew he would likely die if he did what they asked, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was saving her.

  Chief Inspector Santiago Rojas of the Counterintelligence Direction of the Bolivarian National Intelligence—known as the SEBIN—stared across the rectangular wooden table at the two older men; one he knew, the other he only recognized from Venezuelan television and politics. At thirty-nine and the head of a special domestic unit charged with preventing internal threats, he’d been summoned to the meeting at a clandestine safe house that the SEBIN used for staging operations and other low-level tactical planning on the northern outskirts of the city at the base of the Venezuelan Coastal Range mountains.

  An executive to one of the men had approached him at home and notified him that they needed his help in a sensitive, dangerous matter and that they’d be willing to help his daughter in return. She is everything to me. No matter what they want, no price is too high if they can help her.

  “If you do this,” the older of the two men now said in Spanish, white hair loosely falling across his forehead, “we will do everything we can to save your daughter, starting this very moment. Do we have an agreement?”

  The second man, bald on top with black hair shaved neatly to the skin on both sides of his head, sat quietly, studying Santiago.

  The irony is that either one of them could have ordered me to do this, but instead, they’re bribing me. Whatever this is, it’s not for official channels. But he knew better than to raise his questions. Men of power always have their reasons.

  “We do, sir,” Santiago replied calmly, and looked both men directly in the eyes. Please, God, let the treatment work. “Myself and my men are at your disposal.”

  “No. This is for you alone. Your unit must never know. Ever. Do you understand?” the seventy-year-old politician replied. “This mission is too sensitive, Santiago,” he said, using the chief inspector’s given name. “If you utter a word of it to anyone, you put us, yourself, and most importantly, your daughter, in serious danger. This mission must not be compromised.”

  What have I just agreed to? Santiago thought, his black eyebrows furrowing momentarily above sharp eyes and angular dark-brown features that women paid attention to when he was near. Whatever it is, you’re in it now.

  “Gentlemen, what exactly is the mission?” Santiago asked, genuine interest in his voice.

  The two men looked at each other, and the white-haired man opened the leather bag in front of him, pulled out an 8.5" x 11" high-resolution color photograph, and placed it in front of Santiago.

  Looking off to the side toward something Santiago would never see was a figure he instantly recognized as a man of purpose with an indefinable aura of danger around him. Staring into the unknown was a strikingly handsome American with a slightly tanned complexion, short brown hair, and a faint scar that ran down his left cheek. But it was the eyes that the hidden photographer had captured that drew him in—bright-green pools of intelligence seemed to dance on the thick, glossy paper in front of the inspector. They shone with calculation, but Santiago sensed there was much more to him, that this formidable man was capable of great violence.

  “It’s not a ‘what.’ It’s a ‘who,’ ” the white-haired man replied and jabbed a bent, aged finger onto the face of the man. “And he’s now your primary target.”

  Santiago was quiet as he studied the photograph a moment longer, before finally speaking. “Tell me who he is,” he said, and committed himself to a course of action from which there was no turning back.

  For my daughter, Santiago thought one last time, and proceeded to listen to what the director of the SEBIN and the president of Venezuela’s Supreme Tribunal of Justice had to offer.

  CHAPTER 2

  Atlantis Resort

  Nassau Island, Bahamas

  Saturday, 1100 Local Time

  Logan West studied the great hammerhead sharks as two of the three twelve-foot-long fish circled and chased each other in the middle of Predator Lagoon. A warm Bahamian breeze blew in from the north, and the faint scent of the ocean ran through his nostrils with a sense of weight from the high humidity. It was a typical sunny summer day on Paradise Island, and Logan was entranced by the low thrum of the other patrons at the Lagoon Bar & Grill, the wind, and the air, all of which combined to create a soothing, trance-like effect. This place is amazing. Sarah and I need to come here, preferably before she gets too pregnant to fly.

  The luxury resort of Atlantis occupied the central portion of Paradise Island, an oddly shaped strip of land just north of New Providence Island, connected to it by two bridges. Multiple hotel room towers, interconnected walkways, restaurants, shopping areas, lagoons, and water parks lay sprawled across the island canvas in an endless array of adult and children’s entertainment. The most identifiable features were the two Royal Towers connected by the enormous Bridge Suite that spanned the buildings at the seventeenth floor. Featured in every commercial and multiple movies, it reportedly went for more than twenty-five thousand dollars a night. Should have put that on the government credit card, Logan thought.

  A sudden splash broke the calm surface as one of the hammerhead sharks suddenly charged the other, which accelerated and fled from its attacking lagoon mate. Predators will be predators, even among their own kind, Logan thought, and refocused his attention on his menu. Twenty bucks for a drink? That’s highway robbery, even for something called an Atlantis Punch. Thank God you’re sober, the recovering alcoholic in him commented. Otherwise, you’d be broke already. And I wouldn’t care about why I was down here, Logan reminded himself, bright-green eyes scanning the lunch crowd for potential threats.

  From his seat at the open-air bar under the enormous seashell roof that covered the entire outdoor restaurant, he had an unobstructed view in all directions, except through the low wall of top-shelf liquor that faced him. He smiled briefly at the realization that now with more than two and a half years of sobriety, he wasn’t even tempted by the alcohol buffet laid out before him. One day at a time had turned into one month and now one year at a time, and he had no desire to return to the lifestyle that had nearly destroyed his marriage and his life.

  Cole should be here in ten minutes or so. I’ll order us some pulled chicken Caribbean sliders in the meantime, and then we can figure out the next move while we wait.

  It had been nearly two weeks since the vice president of the United States had orchestrated his own “kidnapping” in order to deceive the public and flee North America, a traitor to the Constitution and his country. According to retired Marine Corps Commandant General Jack Longstreet, also the chief of security operations for Constantine Kallas, the head of a multibillion-dollar international shipping conglomerate, Vice President Joshua Baker had escaped to South America. Complicating matters was the fact that only Task Force Ares, comprising Logan West, his team, and selected others in the government—including the president and the directors of the CIA and FBI—knew the truth. All other US law enforcement and even the Intelligence Community thought the vice presi
dent had been kidnapped by a Montana-based militia. How long that ruse holds up is anyone’s guess, Logan thought.

  Once Constantine Kallas had died, violently, at the hands of very powerful members of the clandestine international Organization that he himself had spent decades building and operating, Jack Longstreet had vowed to hunt down and eradicate the traitors who had betrayed his employer, friend, and mentor. The killing had started with the director of the National Security Agency, and Logan suspected Jack and his team of former operators were somewhere in South America, even though Jack wasn’t exactly checking in with Logan. Retired generals will do what retired generals will do.

  It was Jack who had called Logan and notified him of the location of a high-ranking member of the Organization known as the Recruiter. At the orders of the president, Logan and Cole Matthews, the former head of the CIA’s Special Activities Division, had kidnapped, interrogated, and executed the conspirator. They’d then sent his body to the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay for the crab and other aquatic parasites to feed on. But before he died, he’d provided the location of a meeting at the Atlantis Resort he was to have with multiple facilitators of the Organization who had participated in the rebellion. They were the Recruiter’s tour guides to his final destination—which hadn’t been disclosed to him before he died—in South America.

  And hopefully, once we identify the targets, they’ll lead us to other members of the Organization and the ultimate prize, the vice president. They’re all going to burn, Logan thought as he felt the presence of a man who suddenly sat down in the empty bar chair to his right. Jack better get us new intel, or this is going to be the shortest vacation I’ve had. At least it’s better than Iraq, he thought. Come on, Cole. Where are you?

  “Who’s winning?” the newcomer asked.