There was a coldness in his voice that said volumes about his feelings regarding the tech mogul. It had been bad enough before, but then the press had gotten hold of the fact that Chism had been rescued by a team of mercenaries and not US spec ops. It made his administration look a little impotent—which infuriated him—but it could have been much worse. The existence of the Cooks’ spectacularly botched rescue effort was still under wraps and neither Coleman nor Ward was the type to run his mouth unnecessarily. That went double for Mitch Rapp. His ambition was to go through life as a ghost.

“Mike?” the First Lady prompted.

He realized he’d been silent too long but, still, he didn’t speak. The truth was that he didn’t want to be there. In fact, his reaction to the photos that had landed on his desk that morning was to think he should get out. And not the playful threats of becoming a Hawaiian fishing guide he muttered ten times a day. Serious thoughts about running screaming from Langley and rethinking his life. His wife wouldn’t give a shit. She made five times what he did.

But what about his kids? What about the grandkids that would eventually come? Could he just turn his back on the world they’d inherit and tell them to figure things out on their own?

Nash pulled a series of eight-by-tens from his portfolio and laid them on the coffee table.

“What are we looking at?” the president asked.

“What’s left of Nicholas Ward’s compound in Uganda.”

Cook reached for the top photo and examined it while his wife picked up the one beneath. Nash had learned early on to bring two of everything.

“Those are satellite photos. Not great, but the best thing we have at this point.”

“I can make out the burned areas and buildings,” Catherine said, oddly expressionless. “But what are all the dots?”

“Bodies, ma’am. You can see where they breached the east and west walls. The pattern of casualties suggests a running fight with Ward’s security forces.”

“Who won?”

“It appears the attackers did. The fact that Ward’s chopper is gone suggests he made it out, though.”

“To where?”

“He had a hangar to the southeast that he was to be evacuated to if something like this happened. There was a jet there that would then take him to Johannesburg.”

“And is that what happened?”

“No, sir.”

Cook’s eyebrows rose and he leaned back in the sofa. “Then what?”

“We haven’t been able to get anyone to the compound, but the hangar isn’t far from Mbarara and we had someone there we could use. According to him, both Ward’s chopper and the jet are still there. And there’s evidence of a firefight.”

“Can I assume that no one’s heard from Ward since?”

“That’s correct, sir.”