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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

The third asset did not even draw a weapon. Instead, he walked directly to the counter, stepped behind it, and located the security camera Blu-ray recorder. He popped out the disk running in the machine, and he slipped it into his pocket. He then turned the Blu-ray player off, giving the impression it had not been running today at all.

By the time he finished he heard the last cries for mercy from the man on the floor. The asset behind the counter did not even pause to look at the target. Instead he just went to the front door and held it open for his two colleagues, who both slipped their weapons into their raincoats before calmly walking out into the late afternoon.

The third asset followed.

After only thirty seconds inside the convenience store the three Saudis were back on the street. An old van with stolen plates pulled up to the curb, and the three men climbed in, barely breaking stride.

65

Court slept four full hours at a rest stop just south of Savannah, Georgia, then he woke up as refreshed as he’d been in weeks and pulled back onto the highway. His meeting with his father—actually, he knew he couldn’t really call it that, considering there was no conversation between them—had left him feeling settled in a positive way that felt foreign to him, but it was a good feeling, and it had helped him push through the miles heading back north.

Music had propelled him on, as well. On the radio he’d found a station here in North Carolina that played a good mix of Southern rock, the stuff he and his brother grew up loving.

An old Tom Petty tune was playing now and Court had the volume up as loud as it would go. He was enjoying the rock and the old Ford Bronco. He was still tired, the wound in his ribs still hurt, and his future was still very much in doubt, but all things considered, he wasn’t having a bad day at all.

He realized he’d been driving along for the past few hours without checking his phone, so he lifted it from the center console and looked at it.

His RedPhone app showed four missed connections. He’d also received a text.

Driving along at seventy miles an hour, he opened the text.

Crucial that I reach you. Call me, no matter the time. —Cathy