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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

“Sure,” she said, doing her best to force calm into her voice. In fact, her racing heart beat faster by the second, and she steeled herself for what she was about to do.

And her mind raced along with her heart. When was the last time she had charged the stun gun? The packaging claimed the batteries would hold a full charge for six months. Had she even touched the device in that time? Yes, now she remembered. She charged the gun in early January, less than four months earlier. It should be ready to go.

Although she’d never used the weapon on another person, according to the packaging, it was quite simple to employ. One touch to the skin of the man beside her, ideally in the neck or low back near the spine, would fully incapacitate him for a minute or more.

Catherine tried to appear as nonchalant as possible. “Your name isn’t really Jeff Duncan, is it?”

“What do you think?”

“No. What should I call you?”

“Call me Six.”

Her breath quickened. This confirmed him as the man in Washington Highlands. She said, “The house on Brandywine Street. There was a number six left there.” That had not been reported. The man said nothing. “Was that so the CIA would know you were here?”

“They already knew I was here. It was to show them I wasn’t running.” A pause. “Not anymore.”

They approached a four-way stop. He said, “If you try to bail, I’ll just stop you. Understood?”

Her thumb flipped up the security cap over the stun gun’s actuator. Thinking quickly, she said, “Bail? I’m fifty-four. I’m not sure I ever knew how to bail. But even if I did, those days are firmly behind me.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man chuckle at this, as if he was completely comfortable snatching an innocent woman off the street.

A large black work truck rolled up to the intersection on the left of the old Civic.

Catherine squeezed the handle of the stun gun so hard it hurt. Her thumb hovered over the red actuator.

Six started to pull forward, but the work truck on the left began rolling out of turn, so he was forced to brake abruptly.

Catherine took her opportunity. In one motion she lifted the device up, spun towards the man behind the wheel, and plunged the metal tips into the right side of his throat, which, due to the black hoodie, was the only exposed skin showing around her kidnapper’s neck.

She pressed the button and an electric clicking sound filled the air. It seemed impossibly loud and violent here in the small cabin of the Honda Civic.

The man behind the wheel cried out as six million volts coursed through his body.

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