“Charlie. Who’s this?”

“Your boss,” King Cutler said. “You know what I’m looking at, Daou?”

“How could I possibly—”

“Stick it! At this very moment, I’m looking at a surveillance photo of you, Flix, and Whitman getting on a private plane in Djibouti. I know you’re nowhere near Beirut. And, furthermore, I can guess where you are.”

“We have el-Habib,” Charlie began.

“You what?!? Never mind, I should’ve known. Whitman’s like a dog with a bone—he’ll worry it to death until he gets at the marrow.” He sighed heavily. “Did you at least find out why el-Habib was being protected?”

“He’s part of a pipeline that runs from Beijing to Washington.”

Cutler felt a tiny shiver of fear run down his spine. “Christ, don’t tell me it’s political.” For USA to get involved in a high-level political maneuvering would mean a death sentence for the company.

“He mentioned a group called the Alchemists.”

True fear took hold of Cutler. “Alchemists.” St. Vincent’s group, Christ. The shit that fucker wasn’t telling him. “Who are the Alchemists?”

“No idea, at this point.”

“Are you still interrogating him?”

Silence. Static. Silence.

“Daou.” And what will Gregory do now that he’s found out he’s up against his former employers? “Daou! What the hell’s happened to our connection?”

Silence. Over the next twenty minutes he tried to raise Red Rover six times. The connection was dead and could not be resurrected.

*   *   *

Sydny’s cry was like a knife shoved between Julie’s ribs. She felt completely frozen in terror. Then Sydny screamed, and, in a flash Julie got to her feet. She tried to rip off the hood, but sweat made it stick to her like a second skin. Fumbling, she pulled on the upper zipper tabs and, blinking like an owl in sunlight, could see again.

Sydny was whimpering. Then came a man’s voice raised like a cudgel over hers. Julie, heart racing, was in a panic. What can I do? she thought. The intruder has a gun. Surely, he’ll check the other rooms and then he’ll find me. There’s nowhere to hide. I’m helpless.

And then she remembered the handgun. She lunged for the closet, felt along the shelf until her fingers closed around the grips of the weapon. She recalled the way Olivia Benson held her gun and almost laughed at the thought of imitating a character on a TV show beloved by her.

She held it as Olivia would, left hand supporting the butt while the forefinger of her right hand extended just above the trigger guard, ready to move into firing position. Her pulse filled up her throat as she advanced across the bedroom to the doorway into the hall. Beyond, the lights of the living room rose with a feral glow, like a forest fire.