"What's your name?" Troy demanded fiercely as Jack came around the front of the pickup and jumped to the bottom of the gully.

"Charlie," the kid answered, already sobbing. "Charlie Griffin."

"Is your father Wayne Griffin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is he?"

"They left a few hours ago to do some things."

"They?" Troy asked.

"Him and a friend."

"Are you all right?" Jack asked after getting to where Troy and Charlie were. "Are you hit?"

"I'm fine," Troy snapped as he held the kid down with one hand and pulled the kid's belt off with the other. "Get his gun. It's in the truck somewhere."

By the time Jack found it, Troy had lashed Charlie's wrists tightly together behind his back with the belt.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Troy demanded, rising to his feet when he was finished and coming right to where Jack was standing, so he was right in Jack's face. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it, what did I tell you?"

"Shoot first," Jack answered solemnly. Troy was so right. He'd frozen at the critical moment. "But he's just a kid."

"So what? He was gonna kill you."

"I know," Jack admitted. He'd never make that mistake again. He'd be a trigger-happy fool from now on. His whole body was starting to shake hard as the reality of what could have just happened sank in. "You saved my life."

"We're even for Alaska," Troy muttered. "Let's check out the house out. We've got to make sure no else is around. Then we'll interrogate this little s.h.i.t."

"What do you mean, 'interrogate'?"

Troy's eyes flashed back to Jack's, and they stared at each other intently for several moments as the kid began to bawl loudly. "I mean," Troy said deliberately and loudly so Charlie could hear, "that I will use any and every method I have to in order to get any and every piece of information I can out of this young man as fast as possible."

"He's not a man, he's a boy."

"Don't start," Troy warned. "My son's been kidnapped, and this kid may know where he is. I intend to find out immediately if he does, and whether or not you agree with my methods is of no consequence to me whatsoever."

"Don't do it," Jack whispered.

"I will do it," Troy replied calmly. "I have no problem doing it. If you're going to try and stop me, try now. Let's get it over with, because I will put you down."

He couldn't beat Troy in a fight. And he wouldn't point a gun at his brother. "You can't torture him."

"If he doesn't answer me right away, or he doesn't answer truthfully, I will absolutely torture him. To death if I need to."

Charlie's sobs grew loud.

"You can't know if he's telling the truth or not."

"Oh, I'll know. Believe me, I will."

Jack's phone went off, indicating that he'd received a text message. He dug the phone from his pocket and checked the screen. As he read the words there, the breath rushed from his lungs. Suddenly he was in the same boat as Troy.

"We have Karen, too," the message read.

"What is it?" Troy demanded.

Wide-eyed, Jack held the phone out. But it shook so wildly in his hand Troy had to grab it from him to read the words.

CHAPTER 26.

HARPERS FERRY, West Virginia, was a quaint town of less than three hundred residents located seventy-five miles northwest of Washington, DC. It was nestled into the eastern side of a steep hill overlooking the wide, deep confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers. Immediately across the Shenandoah to the east were more of West Virginia's heavily wooded sh.o.r.eline and tall hills. A short distance downstream from Harpers Ferry, West Virginia turned into Virginia. And to the north, immediately across the Potomac, were Maryland's tall, steep cliffs. It was a unique area in that it formed the confluence of two great rivers and three historic states.

Harpers Ferry had been vitally strategic to both sides during the American Civil War. Guarding the border between North and South, important river crossings, and multiple railroad lines that used the riverbanks as pa.s.ses through the Appalachian Mountains, the town had changed hands several times during the war after fierce fighting.

A century and a half later, the isolated enclave was serving as a strategic location again-this time for Liam Sterling. He'd quietly brought in twenty-four of the world's deadliest sharpshooters-like importing fine red wines, he'd told them last night-and the a.s.sa.s.sins were all staying at a bed-and-breakfast called The Fisherman's Inn. The inn was constructed on the crest of the hill overlooking the confluence and had a magnificent view of the two great rivers joining forces in the valley below.

Harpers Ferry was a perfect place to prepare for Operation Anarchy, which he had named this historic attack. The town was well off the beaten track and intimate enough to easily detect unfriendly trackers. Sterling was still congratulating himself on his choice of location as he walked along through the late-afternoon sunshine.

Twelve of the a.s.sa.s.sins were men, and twelve were women, and they were all sharing rooms as if they were couples. The inn's proprietor believed theirs was a church group using his facility as a base for a retreat. Sterling had told him they had come here to get away from life's everyday rigors, to mellow out a bit, and to enjoy several days of biking, hiking, prayer, and general appreciation of the beautiful fall weather.

The proprietor had asked no questions. He was only too happy to hang a "no vacancy" sign out front for a few days.

Why would he question anything, Sterling thought to himself as he led the group across the westerly of two CSX Railroad trestles that spanned the Potomac only a stone's throw upriver from its confluence with the Shenandoah. They looked like twelve average American couples out for a relaxing time. It wasn't as if they were brandishing hunting rifles with dangerous-looking telescopic sights atop the barrels, or they had signs hanging from their necks advertising what could potentially be the deadliest day in history for America's most senior officials.

All the deadly hardware was safely locked away in a climate-controlled public storage facility near Tysons Corner, which was fifteen miles west of the White House. It had taken some coaxing to convince the men and women to temporarily part again with the weapons, which they'd sent on ahead of themselves in cloaked packages. But when they'd heard about the size of the payoff they'd quickly agreed. While he hadn't been specific with them yet, he planned to pay each of them three million dollars.

Sterling would keep the rest of the money, which, after expenses, could still net him nearly three hundred million dollars, and maybe more if he worked things right.

It was an amount he definitely had to keep very quiet. He was getting fifty million alone to kill the president, and the same for all three Jensens combined. So his a.s.sembled a.s.sa.s.sin team could not logically lay claim to any of that money, because they would have no part in those four kills. And he was betting that three million dollars was more than most of them had ever earned for a single job, far more, despite how good they all were.

Still, should they find out that their take was less than twenty-five percent of the total payout, there could be problems. Percentages were percentages irrespective of totals. Other than himself, the only person in the world who could accurately and legitimately relay the total bounty the team would receive was Daniel Gadanz. And Gadanz had no incentive to whisper that amount to anyone-until Operation Anarchy was over.

But when OA was over, the drug lord would have an incentive to send that figure out into the spook ether so he could save himself from having to pay the lion's share of the three hundred million, because the other a.s.sa.s.sins would turn on Sterling. Fortunately, he'd antic.i.p.ated that possibility and taken measures to protect himself.

He always tried to think like everyone around him was thinking. That ultimately made antic.i.p.ation much easier.

Sterling smiled as a locomotive's horn wailed at him sadly from the east. The CSX main line out of Washington, DC, split in two on the north sh.o.r.e of the Potomac, which lay just ahead of them at the other end of this bridge. One track-the line they were walking beside now-followed the south sh.o.r.e of the Potomac to points west, while the other line-which traversed a bridge over the Potomac a little to the east of this one-hugged the Shenandoah's western sh.o.r.e for points south.

It didn't matter which bridge the train took over the Potomac when it got here. They'd get an impressive, close-up look at it going past, because the two bridges were very close. And as it pa.s.sed, he would deliver sensitive information concerning the attack. Even hidden, high-tech microphones listening from up on the Maryland cliffs wouldn't pick up anything as a hundred empty coal hoppers thundered past. It was terribly paranoid to think those mikes could be there, he knew, but he wasn't taking any chances with this mission.

And he was very aware of how thoroughly the NSA had blanketed the globe with listening devices.

"All right, people," he called, turning to face the group, which trailed behind him in a strung-out line like ducklings trailing their mother. "Let's bring it in close. Come on, come on," he called in a slightly nagging nasal tone, trying to imagine what a church leader would sound like.

He'd never been to church, so it wasn't easy. The masters at the orphanage had never been able to make him go to chapel, or see the point of it.

"I have some announcements."

Sterling had to give his team credit. They'd taken direction well. They certainly looked the part of a church group, at least to him. The women wore plain blouses with conservative pants or skirts, and none of them had heels on. And the men wore blazers and slacks with shiny, ta.s.seled loafers. Some of the couples were even holding hands, and he wondered if any extracurricular activity had erupted at the inn last night. The walls of the place were thin, and he hadn't heard anything. But he wouldn't doubt that it had. After all, they naturally did things quietly. And, Sterling knew, a.s.sa.s.sins were as much into casual s.e.x as everyone else in the world, perhaps more. They appreciated the fragility of life more than most, and therefore the need to live every day and night to its fullest.

Well, that was their business. As long as they executed their piece of the mission, he didn't care what they did on their own time. And these twenty-four individuals were the best of the best. They could shoot the a.s.shole out of a mosquito from a thousand yards-while it was flying.

The men and women huddled close to him as the three giant diesel locomotives appeared out of the tunnel a hundred feet away on the track closest to them.

"You all know what this is about," Sterling said as loudly as he dared over the screeching of the hoppers' steel wheels against steel rails when the locomotives were past. "When you get back to your rooms you will find envelopes beneath your pillows. Use the first letter of each word to determine your specific target. That progression will spell out the t.i.tle of the individual, not the name."

Last night, he'd ordered them to make their own beds in the morning and to request privacy so no one would come into their rooms while they were gone. But he'd still used code in the communication, in case housekeeping snooped.

"Starting now, you will have twenty-four hours to determine the probability of success of your individual mission on the target day, and we will be in close contact during that period." He pointed back at Harpers Ferry as though he were giving directions for a tour, and they all followed his lead by turning their heads and nodding. "The target date is in the envelope as well. However, that date is subject to change."

Sterling had already done general research on the near-term schedules of their targets. This time of year actually seemed to be working out well. Everyone was back in Washington and in session after the summer break. It looked like the secretary of state might be traveling, but that was all right. In fact, it might make her more vulnerable, and he had another a.s.sa.s.sin trailing her. A technology guru he paid handsomely had hacked into schedules and itineraries, and everything was coming together.

"It's a soft date," he explained to the group. "We'll have to coordinate closely because, as I'm sure you can understand, this must be pulled off on the same day. All of the attacks will have to come within minutes of each other if we expect maximum success. Once the shooting starts, the rabbits will dive for their holes, and our window of opportunity will slam shut. So we will be flexible as far as the date, though it can't be that far off from what I've suggested. When I have settled on a certain date, you will go on that date no matter what, and you will ask no questions."

"What's the payoff?" a woman in front asked.

Sterling had promised them only that their reward would be significant, but he hadn't been specific up to this point. They had to be thinking high six figures. That would make sense in today's world and would fit the "significant" description.

"Each of you will receive three million dollars for your mission." Impressive, he thought to himself. None of their expressions had changed when he'd announced the number. They were cool customers. But they were impressed. They had to be. "I've already deposited a million in each of twenty-four escrow accounts, which, as of four minutes ago," he said smoothly as he checked his watch, "you may now all access and move into your own accounts as you see fit. Instructions for doing so are on that letter in your room. And you will receive the other two million dollars within twenty-four hours of the successful execution of the man or woman you've been a.s.signed to kill."

He took a deep breath. He'd seen a couple of tiny grins break the surface in the back of the pack. They were impressed, all right.

A rush coursed through his chest. The countdown had begun.

EARLY THIS morning Gadanz had flown from his compound in Tijuana to this one, which he kept in the jungles outside Bogot. It was one of his smaller facilities, but he maintained more security here than in any other compound around the world except the one in Tajikistan. Law enforcement wasn't the problem here in Colombia. The danger here came from other, much smaller drug lords who were desperate to somehow destroy his dominant and still-growing share of the South American cocaine trade.

For some reason he hadn't suffered a migraine all day, even on final approach this morning to the landing strip down the hill. Generally, he was guaranteed to feel it then because of the gradual and prolonged change in cabin pressure. The pilots were under strict orders to get the plane down as fast as possible once they'd identified the landing area, but there were physical constraints, and he understood that. He hated the headaches, but they were better than fiery crashes.

Gadanz scanned the message he'd just received. Sterling now had possession of Jack Jensen's brand-new wife and Troy Jensen's one-year-old son, in addition to President Dorn's illegitimate daughter. Things were going very, very well.

Gadanz leaned forward, grabbed his head, and screamed. This migraine had come from nowhere, like a blitzkrieg.

A LONG, mixed-freight train pa.s.sed by on the bridge to Harpers Ferry. Sterling marveled at how many cars the two locomotives could pull.

The others had headed back to the inn. But he'd wanted some alone time out here on the bridge to think. By all accounts Chief Justice Warren Bolger's death was simply as had been reported-a tragic accident. But Sterling prided himself on his data-gathering ability, and there was one piece of the puzzle that wasn't fitting. The driver of the truck that had slammed into Bolger's beautiful BMW had a brother. And that brother had received a sizable money transfer only two days ago.

Sterling hadn't been able to identify the sender of the wire. He was still working on that.

Maybe it had been an accident, but it seemed awfully coincidental to have one of the targets on Gadanz's list die so close to Operation Anarchy going live. Sterling hated coincidences. He always had.

CHAPTER 27.

JACK'S GAZE raced to the driver's side mirror of Troy's SUV when a shrill siren split the afternoon. "d.a.m.n it," he muttered as he spotted the patrol car speeding up behind him on the country road, lights flashing. "This is all I need."

Jack's stress came from having Charlie Griffin gagged and hog-tied in the back. The windows were tinted, and he and Troy had draped blankets over the kid before Jack pulled away from the farmhouse thirty minutes ago. But Charlie might still be able to alert the officer during a traffic stop, despite the sock stuffed down his throat, the duct tape covering his mouth, and the rope securing his wrists to ankles behind his back.

Hopefully the cop was heading to some kind of minimal emergency, like a cat stuck in a tree, Jack prayed as he eased the SUV onto a gra.s.sy area beside the road so the cop could pa.s.s easily. Hopefully this interruption would be short. When the cop was gone, he could get to the Jensen compound, lock Charlie in the bas.e.m.e.nt cell, and get back to the farmhouse.

Troy had stayed there in case Charlie's father returned. So he could push their frantic investigation to the next rung in the ladder, to whomever Wayne Griffin was reporting to, because Troy doubted Griffin was the ringleader. The odds of L.J. and Karen being kidnapped on the same day were astronomical, which was why Troy figured it must have something to do with Red Cell Seven. How could a man like Wayne Griffin know anything of the unit? Griffin had to be simply a p.a.w.n in all of this, Troy had reasoned.

Jack had argued for both of them staying at the farmhouse until Wayne returned, but Troy was against the plan. Get a prisoner off-site and secured immediately. It was standard operating procedure in a situation like this, he'd claimed firmly.

Jack had no idea what SOP was in this situation. He just hoped Troy's talk wasn't simply a ruse to get an older brother off-site. An older brother who'd failed to fire first when they'd caught up to the pickup truck and almost ended up dead thanks to hesitating at a critical moment in the heat of battle.

He'd wanted to ask Troy if that was the case. But he'd let it go when Troy had told him to get back as soon as possible, after getting Charlie to the Jensen mansion.

The other possibility was that Troy didn't want him around for the interrogation that would inevitably and quickly follow Wayne Griffin's capture. But that didn't matter now. He had a much bigger and more immediate problem than worrying about Troy violating a prisoner's civil rights.

Jack groaned as the state trooper pulled up behind the SUV, and perspiration began seeping from his pores. The seep became a torrent when the kid began to shout and move about frantically in the back. The sounds were low and m.u.f.fled, but the officer would definitely be suspicious if he heard them, and what the h.e.l.l was he going to say then?

The kid must have figured out what was happening. When all the facts were revealed Charlie would be in bad trouble, too. But maybe the kid figured cops were the lesser of two evils.

Jack's heart beat madly as he grabbed the registration and insurance cards from the glove compartment, turned off the engine, climbed from the SUV, and headed back toward the trooper.

What the h.e.l.l was he being pulled over for, anyway? He'd made certain to do five-under the whole time just to avoid this possibility.

Before climbing out, he'd been tempted to yell at Charlie to stay quiet or there'd be h.e.l.l to pay. But that might have alerted the kid to an opportunity and made him struggle harder and yell louder. So he'd said nothing.

"Stay where you are!" the cop yelled out the open window of the white cruiser with the narrow blue-and-yellow trim down the side. "Don't come any closer."

"Yes, sir," Jack called back respectfully, raising his hands out of reflex as another car whizzed past. The guy driving the car laughed and pointed. Some people were such a.s.sholes. "No worries."

He kept his hands up, where the officer could see them, but kept inching forward. He'd only made it a few feet beyond the back b.u.mper before the officer yelled at him, and he could definitely hear the kid. The ruckus was faint, and maybe he could hear it more clearly because he knew what to listen for. But he didn't want to count on that.

"I told you to stay put!"

Jack had made it another few feet along the pavement, but he could still hear the thumping and moaning. Couldn't he? "Yes, sir." At least the cop hadn't ordered him back into the SUV. That would have been a disaster.

He glanced around. Dense woods were only a few feet to the left beyond the narrow strip of gra.s.s paralleling the road. But running would be such an extreme measure.

The officer climbed from the car and donned his gray Stetson as he strode purposefully toward Jack. He was tall and dark, and walked with a slight limp.

"What's the problem, Officer?" Jack asked in a friendly voice. "I wasn't speeding, was I?"