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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

Court retrieved the Glock 17 pistol he had taken from the phony police officer with the Middle Eastern accent. He held it up, close to Zack’s face. “Take a look at this.”

Zack gave it a half-second glance and then shrugged. “Is it show-and-tell time, bro? That’s a G17, threaded barrel. What do I win?”

“Tell me where I got it.”

Zack just shrugged.

“I took that off a D.C. Metro police officer.”

The man tied to the beam gave Court a double take. “Bullshit.”

Court held up the silencer, as well. “This, too.”

“Why would a D.C. cop have a suppressed pistol?”

“He wouldn’t. Yet this was being carried by one of the four guys with shitty English dressed as cops in the Dupont Circle metro station. Those were the guys who did kill Ohlhauser.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Zack said softly. His veneer of self-assuredness had slipped. Then he said, “Hanley.”

“What about Hanley?”

“This morning, in the conference room. He had some song and dance about how you didn’t frag Ohlhauser. About how the evidence didn’t fit.”

“Well then,” Court said. For the first time since he’d arrived here he felt like he just might have someone on his side. “Matt’s right. I didn’t do it.”

“Who were the guys dressed as cops, then?”

Court said, “A foreign unit. Good, but not great. Middle Eastern. Gulf state is my best guess from the accents, but I could be off on that.”

Zack was still not sure about this strange claim. In a doubtful tone he said, “They were Muj?”

“Sure looked like it. Whoever they are, Zack, you can be sure they are working for Carmichael.”

Zack shook his head. “Denny’s not going to contract Muj to proxy for him. Especially not in the middle of Washington, D.C. The director would hang him by his nut sack.”

“Zack, think about it. Those guys would only be involved in the hunt for me if Denny wanted them here.”

“I don’t know,” Zack said. “But I do know that doesn’t have a damn thing to do with me.”

“Okay,” Court said. “Why did they bring you into this?”

“Because I told them I’d help them bag you.”

“And here we are.”

Zack looked around. “Here we are.”

Court waved the Glock towards Zack. “It’s time you think about your predicament.”

Hightower looked again around the filthy old mill, and he licked at the dried blood caking his lips. “Really? Do tell.”