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Chapters (88)
  1. Titles by Mark Greaney
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  6. CONTENTS
  7. Epigraph
  8. CHARACTERS
  9. PROLOGUE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. 27
  37. 28
  38. 29
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. 32
  42. 33
  43. 34
  44. 35
  45. 36
  46. 37
  47. 38
  48. 39
  49. 40
  50. 41
  51. 42
  52. 43
  53. 44
  54. 45
  55. 46
  56. 47
  57. 48
  58. 49
  59. 50
  60. 51
  61. 52
  62. 53
  63. 54
  64. 55
  65. 56
  66. 57
  67. 58
  68. 59
  69. 60
  70. 61
  71. 62
  72. 63
  73. 64
  74. 65
  75. 66
  76. 67
  77. 68
  78. 69
  79. 70
  80. 71
  81. 72
  82. 73
  83. 74
  84. 75
  85. 76
  86. 77
  87. 78
  88. EPILOGUE

He read through to the end of the article, and now Court’s jaw muscles tensed and he looked up from his screen, furious.

They were making him out to be nothing more than a delusional psycho who held an imaginary grudge against the CIA, who then bumbled over to the Middle East for training and support before returning home to begin his reign of terror.

Court scrolled back up to the top of the article looking for the byline. Catherine King. An e-mail address and phone number were listed as well.

Court decided he wanted to talk to King to find out about the access she’d been granted and the people she’d interviewed. This might help him learn of others involved in his situation, someone he could target next.

But Court knew something else, as well. The CIA had planted intel in the article so that he would do just that.

Court shook his head in disbelief. All these years, all this cat and mouse, and Denny Carmichael still thought Court was just some knuckle-dragging door-kicker, not smart enough to see he was being set up.

Court smiled a little and decided he wouldn’t go after Catherine King. No, not yet.

He would, instead, go after whoever it was tailing Catherine King, hoping it would be the same group of Arabs he’d been up against since at least the night he witnessed Leland Babbitt’s murder.

If the CIA was using foreign operatives here in the U.S., Court felt they would be at the center of the reasons behind his targeting. He’d love to get hold of some of these men after him, to squeeze them for intelligence, because they would surely have the answers.

He’d speak with King later if he needed to, but for now, he would seek out the hunters on his trail, because in Court’s long career, he had learned one lesson above all: it’s no big trick to turn a predator into prey.

52

Catherine King parked on the cobblestone street just steps from the front door of her O Street two-story Federalist home and climbed out of her bright blue Prius. She retrieved her purse, her briefcase, and her yoga mat from the backseat, then she headed inside without a glance at the street around her.

Zack Hightower watched her through the Leupold scope affixed to his collapsible sniper rifle. Once she was inside her front door, he scanned the length of O Street, looking for any idling vehicles in the area. Seeing nothing of interest, he began training his optic on the lighted windows in the nearby apartment buildings.