Chapters (96)
- Cover
- Berkley titles by David Ricciardi
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- CHARACTER LIST
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EIGHTY-FIVE
- EIGHTY-SIX
- EIGHTY-SEVEN
- Children of Fallen Patriots Foundation
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
Pickens shook his head and tore the top off. Inside were two dozen photographs from the Saviz. There were several shots of open crates filled with grenade launchers, rockets, and more rifles and machine guns than they could count. More pictures showed the interior and exterior layout of the ship, including the name painted on the stern, and finally, there was a series of overhead thermal images showing the ship listing to one side and ultimately sinking beneath the waves.
“Graves certainly is unorthodox,” Pickens said, “but maybe that’s his genius.”
Clap glanced at Jake. Unlike Pickens, he also worked for Ted Graves.
And “genius” wasn’t the word either of them would have chosen.
Pickens passed the photos to Jake in the front seat. There were several dozen wooden crates in the massive refrigerator cases, which would have held the fishing boat’s catch until it returned to land. Yaxaas’s men had opened a few of them, and Jake counted the Kalashnikov rifles (twelve to a crate) and Iranian-made RPG-7 rocket launchers (eight to a crate), plus hundreds of warheads and several PKM machine guns. Jake finally reached the pictures of the ship going down.
He was going through the photos a second time when something caught his attention.
One of the machine gun crates was painted the same drab green as the others, and it had the same rope handles and metal latches, but it had glistened when the camera’s flash hit it, as if it were wet.
Jake checked the other photos to see if the crate had been opened. It hadn’t, but it had been captured in another picture from another angle, and Jake saw the same phenomenon—moisture on its surface while similar crates around it were dry.
He put the photo back in the stack and looked out the window.
It was probably nothing.
FORTY-EIGHT
THE WHOLE TEAM was in the safe house living room when Jake called Ted Graves.
“I’ll call you back in five,” Graves said. He was breathing heavily. Well into his forties, the Special Activities chief often exercised for two hours a day, in addition to spending fourteen hours in the office, and Jake had caught him on the treadmill.
Jake killed the connection and paced around the room. Taped on the wall next to Clap’s gear was a picture of a woman in running clothes crossing a finish line somewhere.
“Who’s that?” Jake said.
“Wife,” said Clap.
“Attractive.”
“Yeah.”
“What was she running?”
“Potomac River Marathon.”
“Amazing.”
“That she could run twenty-six miles?”
“Nah. That her Seeing Eye dog could.”
Clap punched Jake in the shoulder.
Graves called back a few minutes later. Even though he was speaking on a secure encrypted phone, and everyone in the Agency gym had at least a top secret security clearance—including the guy handing out the towels—Graves still had to be discreet.
“What’s the latest?” he asked.