The Marine slumped into a sitting position against the closed door and began breathing in quick, shallow puffs, like an overworked dog. A cough revealed blood.

Montez silently approached and kicked the handgun out of his opponent’s hand. It clattered away on the wood floor. Sadly, he wouldn’t have time to question this man at any length. He retrieved a syringe from the refrigerator, pushed it into the soldier’s neck, and injected the thiopental. The soldier tried to bat it away, but too late. He watched an expression of calmness take the man’s face.

“To ease your pain. Are you alone?”

No response.

He backed up and took a knee. “My men, you killed them?”

Again, nothing.

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

“You have perhaps… one minute of life remaining. Don’t be too hard on yourself, you couldn’t have predicted the flash-bangs. Do you have a wife? Children?”

“Pregnant, our first.”

“Has your vision returned yet?”

He nodded.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“I didn’t—” The soldier coughed up more blood and closed his eyes.

“Didn’t what?”

“The dogs. I didn’t kill them.”

“You have a soft heart for dogs?”

The soldier nodded.

Montez told a white lie. “I will find a good home for them.” He backed up a step. “My men, killing them… you did what you had to. Just as I did with you.”

Anger flared, not at this assassin before him, but at the savage betrayal he represented. Whoever ordered this would pay dearly.

Finding them wouldn’t be easy, but at least he knew where to start.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Holly Simpson, Special Agent in Charge of Sacramento’s FBI field office, shook her head. How had this happened? And more importantly, when? Good grief, her office looked like a giant paper recycle bin. Tomorrow she’d have her assistant help organize this clutter. But where to start? Her desk and filing cabinets were covered with stacks of interoffice memos, printed email, NCIC reports, crime scene photographs, and unopened mail. The result? An unsightly mess. Well, all this was about to change. Starting tomorrow.

Something else concerned her as well, something she’d seen this morning, half circles under her eyes and the distinct beginnings of crow’s-feet. Were they there last year, when she turned forty? She supposed her dark hair and hazel eyes helped a little. Thank goodness for small favors. In fairness, she attributed some, if not all of her accelerated aging, to the tragic bombing of her field office that had claimed twenty-one lives and ended the careers of seventeen others. She’d nearly been killed herself. A few more foot-pounds of pressure from whatever had struck her head and she would’ve been dead instead of contemplating her messy office. All things being equal, she preferred the latter.