As he weaved through the trees, Rapp couldn’t help thinking about how it had happened. He remembered the battles they’d fought together, some against America’s enemies and others between them. He remembered shouting matches about strategy, tactics, and personnel. He remembered drinking on Nash’s deck with Maggie and the kids and teaching their oldest son lacrosse.

Rapp slowed as his white-hot rage faded to a dull red.

A few years back, he’d forced Nash to take credit for something Rapp himself had done, turning him into a hero. He’d received the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the fawning attention of Washington’s elites, and an enormous amount of media coverage. The unexpected celebrity had made it impossible for him to continue as a clandestine operative. Through no fault of his own, he suddenly found himself shut out of the career he’d built.

He’d been pissed as hell and, in retrospect, probably had a right to be. At the time, Rapp had told himself he’d done it for the man’s own good. That he was losing his edge and had a family that needed him. He’d convinced himself that he was protecting his old friend. But was that really his decision to make? And had his motivations really been so pure? It had been clear that someone was going to have to take credit for what had been done and Rapp didn’t want it to be him. The problem was that he hadn’t just fled the spotlight like he’d been doing his entire life; he’d shoved his friend into it in his place.

Rapp came to a stop, listening to the forest around him for any indication of his target. But there wasn’t anything. When properly motivated, Nash could apparently still move his fat ass up a hill.

He started forward again but found that his pace had slowed even more. He thought back to a particularly ugly fight he and Nash had gotten into years ago. It had ended up with Rapp leaving the man lying on the shoulder of the road.

Now he couldn’t even remember what they were arguing about.

He tried to refocus on the task at hand, reminding himself that the penalty of taking Mike Nash for just another manicured bureaucrat could very well be death. But the focus wouldn’t come. Only the memories.

The hard-to-face truth was that he’d made Nash the man he was today. He’d sent the Marine to the executive floor kicking and screaming. Once there, what had he expected him to do? Nash always excelled. In school. In sports. In combat. Why wouldn’t he examine his new battlefield and calculate how to win on it? Why wouldn’t he recognize that Washington was an operating environment that didn’t reward loyalty and courage? It rewarded treachery and self-interest.

Adapt or die.