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  To my brothers, John and Ronald …

  and

  in loving memory of my parents.

  “Thank you” somehow seems lacking.

  It gives me comfort to know you still

  watch over me from above.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my Executive Editor Bob Gleason at Forge, thank you for your enthusiasm and seeing the potential. Your gentle guidance has meant a lot. I do enjoy our chats about all things nuclear.

  The Forge team has been nothing short of amazing. Thanks to Tom Doherty for the opportunity to get my story out there. It’s a privilege to be published under your imprint. I still pinch myself from time to time.

  Thank you, Kelly Quinn. I’m not sure of everything an editorial assistant does, but you wear a number of hats well. You held my hand throughout this entire process, making everything fall into place smoothly. Go Bruins!

  M. Longbrake, you’re the English teacher I wish I’d had. As copy editors go, you’re a shining star. Your suggestions and edits were dead-on. I owe you lunch!

  Art Director Seth Lerner, it was as if you were in my head. Thanks for creating a totally amazing book jacket. It will forever be a fixture in my man cave.

  Mary A. Wirth, even though I’d looked at and read the book numerous times, your text design really made it come alive for me.

  To Kate Folkers, getting Sandstorm to where it is today is a testament to your unyielding belief. We were down to the eleventh hour, but this being your last deal as a literary agent was the best stay of execution I could have ever hoped for.

  To Sharlene Martin of Martin Literary Management, your vision inspires dreams of big things to come.

  Vince Flynn and Brad Meltzer are true inspirations who offered friendship, insight, and support. Thank you both for being exemplary people.

  In Jeff Zaslow, mankind lost a brilliant storyteller. Your wit, poise, talent, and nurturing manner are sorely missed. Thank you for your encouragement.

  To the men and women who serve, whether on the front lines or in the shadows, no amount of gratitude is enough.

  Thanks to anyone who took the time to answer any dumb question I might have posed. I guarantee I’ll have many more.

  To my sons, Spencer and Drake, I am blessed to have two wonderful examples of what love truly means.

  Finally, to my wife, Sean. Thanks for holding down the fort while I was locked away in the man cave writing. Your support and patience were unwavering. This journey has meant so much because you’ve been by my side.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  Erica Janway reflected on her past because she had no future.

  Forty-eight years of living, most of them good. A decent childhood. No serious health issues other than a brief fondness for alcohol. The usual amount of bad dates before the right one showed up. She was proud to have served her country with honor, no matter what some of the assholes at the CIA thought. She’d get a black star chiseled into the white face of Vermont marble on the Wall of Honor at Langley. Her husband, Paul, was the rock of her foundation and the main reason the drinking stopped. There was plenty more to reflect upon, but she was out of time.

  The ominous figure clad in a dripping wetsuit stood motionless a few feet away in her Annapolis, Maryland, kitchen. She knew his presence was of her own doing. She hadn’t been able to keep her nose out of things. When they’d reassigned her from station chief in Moscow back to Langley, she’d been able to deal with the indignity only for so long before it had really pissed her off. Working from a desk, she’d searched daily for trouble, and once she’d stumbled upon it, resisting the temptation to dig further had been impossible. She’d wanted to take her suspicions up the ladder to her superiors but had lacked concrete proof. Plus, she could ill-afford another blemish on her record.

  As a puddle formed on the tile, Erica figured he’d been watching her for a long time from the inlet off the Chesapeake Bay, the water’s edge just a chip shot away. She’d been on the deck for most of the evening and hadn’t heard or seen anything unusual.

  Erica stared at the 9 mm pistol pointed at her chest. “If it’s money you want, I only have about sixty dollars in the house.” She was trying to buy time. She knew he wasn’t here for money. Common criminals didn’t walk around with silenced weapons. She coyly eased toward the knife holder on the counter.

  The intruder, of course, recognized what she was trying to do. He almost wanted to give her a fighting chance. While watching from the water, he’d discovered there was something playfully amusing about her. She hardly came across as the cold-hearted threat she was portrayed to be. But he’d never been given a reason not to trust his handler’s orders.

  He focused his weapon squarely on Erica’s heart as she stood next to the knife holder. She didn’t bother to make the attempt, knowing it was futile. She prepared herself as best she could. There was nothing to say that would alter her predicament. The though
t that she would not die in vain gave her a degree of comfort. She’d prepared a package to be sent in the event that something happened to her. They would have no way of knowing that.

  She decided not to scream. There really was no point. The house was hidden away behind ample foliage down a path. One of the attractions about the property had been its privacy.

  Erica closed her eyes, thinking of Paul. She heard the muffled thump as a bullet left the chamber and tore through her heart.

  * * *

  On his way out, Janway’s executioner paused to look at several notes she had scribbled on a notepad while sitting on the deck. As he read, he observed that some were pertinent to why he was here. In the lower right-hand corner, framed by subconscious doodling, were two letters firmly repeated a couple of times. They meant nothing to him, but as he tore the pages away, he decided he’d make sure “NM” was run through every database of Janway’s life. At this point, there could be no loose ends.

  CHAPTER 2

  Maneuvering her way through the throng of people choking the Spanish Steps should have awakened her to the fact that she’d been aimlessly walking the streets of Rome for quite some time. She’d passed countless cafés, bars, and clubs, the nightlife openly beckoning. Nora Mossa was oblivious to it all.

  She recalled seeing on television—maybe on the National Geographic channel or during Shark Week—that several species of shark had to keep moving or they’d die. She could relate. Obligate ram ventilators. That was the term. They had to swim forward in order to force oxygen-containing water through their mouths and over their gills. The shit you remembered at the weirdest times, she thought.

  Like a great white, she wanted to rip something apart. Not necessarily to feed, but to get rid of the rising aggression overtaking her system.

  She’d been waiting on a phone call that had never come, and now, the deadline had passed. Nora fought back the urge to vomit. Not getting that call meant that in all likelihood, her friend and mentor, Erica Janway, was dead.

  Not caring about the risks, she took as many shortcuts as possible back to her Piazza Navona neighborhood. Three blocks past the Pantheon, she was at her apartment building. Instead of taking the elevator, Nora climbed the steps of the thirteenth-century building to the second floor. She leaned against the thick wooden door of her apartment after shutting it, taking a long, deep breath. She took a moment to focus on what she had to do next. Erica and the CIA had trained her not to panic. Procedure would help clear her mind. She was on her way to the bedroom when the faint smell of lavender and sandalwood tickled her nostrils.

  She ducked just in time.

  The move thwarted the man’s attempt to wrap a beefy arm around her neck, leaving him nothing to grasp but air. His momentum forced him to take an extra step, leaving him slightly off balance. Nora pivoted to his left side and put all her weight behind a punch that nearly doubled him over. He cringed but countered with a sweeping right hand. Again, she managed to avoid the effort. She took advantage of an opening to deliver a pair of sharp strikes just below the rib cage. She then took a step and knocked him forcefully backward with a kick to his midsection. He crashed into a table, nearly falling because he only tried to brace himself with one hand. Nora understood why when she located the knife in his right hand. Judging from how he tried to attack her from behind, she was sure it was sharp enough to slice her throat open in a single pass.

  The next move was easy to anticipate but difficult to defend in the relatively close quarters of her living room. Nora backpedaled, her arms searching behind her while she kept the rapidly advancing man in front of her. He was within arm’s length when she grabbed a dining room chair. As his right hand zigzagged forward, searching for flesh, she brought the chair around, punishing his arm, dislodging the knife in the process. His quickness and recovery caught her by surprise. His left hand shot out and wrapped around her neck like a python, squeezing tighter and tighter. He lifted her up and shoved her against the wall. It was nearly impossible to get air into her lungs. Nora couldn’t loosen his grip, but she clenched her left hand and swung down onto the bridge of his nose as if trying to chop a tree trunk. She felt cartilage break as he quickly released his grip, trying to regain his equilibrium through watery eyes. Nora kneed him in the crotch and then used her knuckles to deal a blow that shifted his larynx. He staggered to the ground, clutching his throat. Nora went to retrieve the knife, knowing she had to hurry. Fighting through the pain, he attempted to pull out a gun, but the attached silencer’s bulk wouldn’t easily clear his jacket. Nora picked up the knife and, without thinking much about aim, let it fly. A hurried shot sailed a few inches past her head. The knife, however, found a target. All five inches of the blade sliced through the man’s left eye into brain matter. His body went limp after a few erratic jerks.

  He was professional enough to not carry identification, but he had made the mistake of wearing cologne, which had given his presence away. It made her wonder if he had been out on the town when called away to go do a job. The body lying on the floor confirmed one thing for sure. She had to hurry. What if he wasn’t alone? And even if he was, he would be expected to report: when he didn’t, someone else would definitely come to see why.

  She scurried from room to room in the apartment, making on-the-spot decisions about what was essential. The options were narrowed by what could conveniently fit in the small piece of luggage sprawled open on top of the bed. Several times she stepped over the dead man’s body as if it were an apartment amenity. Washer. Dryer. Corpse.

  “Take the black dress!”

  “No time!”

  “There’s plenty of time. Take the black dress!”

  “No time!”

  “Take the black—”

  “Damn it. Shut up!” The irritated utterance startled her, especially since the words surfaced from deep inside her head, which at the moment was running a marathon of emotions. Nora stood perfectly still until her nerves settled.

  Given the circumstances, she shouldn’t have allowed herself to even entertain the frivolous thought of packing the black dress. Just taking a moment to consider it was stupid and a gross misuse of valuable time. Granted, it was a Versace that accentuated her figure in head-turning fashion. At over twelve hundred dollars, it was the single most expensive article of clothing she’d ever purchased. Still, it wasn’t worth dying over. From here on out, every move required extreme thought and caution.

  Nora Mossa had to disappear.

  Nora Mossa had to become someone else.

  She had two fake identity kits supplied by the CIA. She’d pack them but had no intention of using either. There was a third, kept totally off the books. Hiding behind a fictitious identity wouldn’t guarantee safety, but it would buy time. And she needed time to figure this whole mess out and decide whom she could trust. Someone would have to be responsible for bringing her back in.

  Erica Janway was missing, maybe for two days by now. A package had been waiting for Nora when she returned late from a date last night. It was addressed to Vivian Ward. Seeing the name had nearly made her heart skip a beat. “Vivian Ward” was Julia Roberts’s prostitute character in Nora’s favorite chick flick, Pretty Woman. It was also her code name designating extreme danger. She had immediately ripped the package open, revealing a series of notes and a letter addressed to her from Erica. She focused on every word. Erica was not a person prone to paranoia. She instructed Nora that if everything was okay, she’d phone her by noon Eastern Time the next day to alleviate her fears. Nora barely slept that night as she contemplated what it all meant. She wanted desperately to hear her friend’s voice. She hoped that this was just a precaution the two of them would laugh about one day while getting caught up. She had nervously stayed in her apartment, keeping a close eye on the comings and goings on the street below. By early evening, she couldn’t bear to stare at the clock any longer, so she went for a walk. No return call had come in the time allotted. In that scenario, Erica had been specific in her instr
uctions.

  Run.

  Run.

  Quickly!

  The sound of her suitcase shutting echoed throughout the bedroom. She had been stationed in Rome for just over a year and was beginning to like the sound and feel of calling it home. Sadly, that was about to end. Satisfied that nothing essential was being left behind, she headed for the door and exited. With the key about to lock away a part of her life, she paused for reflection. She stomped her feet and hurriedly went back into the apartment. When she emerged in the hallway, slung over her arm was the black Versace dress. There were some things a woman just couldn’t do without.

  CHAPTER 3

  The jet’s turbulence jolted Nora awake from what was a deep, fatigue-induced sleep. Her journey from Rome had begun with good intentions and meticulous preparation. She had spent an entire day at a hotel on the outskirts of the city, perfecting her look. She was no longer a blonde with hair that fell below the shoulders. Her hair was now brunette and short, fuller at the top and cropped neatly around the ears, sloping in toward her neckline. The eyes were also different. Gone were the light green opals, replaced by vibrant blue contact lenses. Her passport matched her newly acquired French accent as well. Nora wasn’t ready to embrace where circumstances were taking her, but there was little choice. Her life was inexplicably in danger. Her friend was missing and likely dead. But why? What had Erica uncovered? Some of the answers would come from the package Erica had sent. That information would have to be sorted out, and Nora knew she couldn’t go at this alone. She needed help, and that meant turning to someone capable of handling the situation—but more importantly, someone she could trust. That list was regrettably very short. If she had followed protocol after the attempt on her life, an emergency number should have been dialed immediately. Arrangements would have been made to bring her in safely. But Erica worked for the CIA as well, and there had to be a reason why she hadn’t alerted her superiors. Nora prayed the person she had to contact would help. They hadn’t been on speaking terms for years. An association and romance had both ended badly, and each had vowed not to see or speak to the other again. Now, she felt that same man was the only person capable of helping her. How could she convince him to help when, years ago, in a similar situation, she had doubted him? This was a man who used trust and faith as huge measuring sticks. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. He was capable of being kind and gentle in one setting and highly lethal in the next. She once loved him dearly. If he wouldn’t help, she felt her days might be numbered.