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Chapters (83)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY TOM CLANCY
  3. PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
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  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
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  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
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  60. 57
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  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. What’s next onyour reading list?

Jack shook his head, smiling, and headed for his bedroom. He was wet, sore, and filthy. Time for a hot shower.

Except he was too damned tired.

He barely managed to strip off his wet clothes before crawling into bed. He passed out as soon as his throbbing head hit the pillow.

52

Paul didn’t feel good.

In fact, he felt like hell. His head throbbed and his stomach was queasy. He’d been in bed when Jack called before. Now the alarm was screaming at him.

Feeling this bad, Paul thought he’d caught pneumonia. But he quickly realized it was the Bushmills that had put his head in a vise and his stomach on a merry-go-round.

He closed his eyes. The whirlies began again. He got dizzy in just a couple seconds and his knotted stomach turned from queasy to pre-projectile. He forced his eyes open and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

Better.

But still not good.

Tea. That would be good.

Coffee. Black coffee.

Better.

He scratched his ample gut and stood on his wobbly legs, wiggled his feet into his slippers, and headed downstairs for the kitchen.

He leaned heavily on the handrail as he made his way down the staircase, his mind a welter of confusion. Where had Jack been all night? At the warehouse? Or somewhere else? But this was just the latest thing. What about the other day when he came home from his night out with Lian Fairchild? He’d obviously been in some kind of a fight. Jack definitely carried himself like a guy who was used to that sort of thing, even if he never bragged about it.

Come to think of it, Jack looked like he’d been through it the day they met with Rhodes and got the assignment. He swore Jack had a black eye he was trying to cover up with makeup. Jack’s excuse—that he’d been on vacation and fell on a hike—didn’t smell right at the time, but Paul had shrugged it off.

Paul limped off the last stair riser and padded toward the kitchen. He’d never known a financial analyst to get into so much trouble or get injured so much in such a short amount of time. He was acting more like an operator than an auditor.

Paul stopped in his tracks. A cold lump of ice spun in his gut, like the floor had suddenly fallen out from under his feet.

Was he being played?

Paul scratched his thinning, uncombed hair. Jack? An agent? If so, for whom?

He headed toward the cabinet with the coffee and filters.

If Jack was CIA, was he working for Rhodes? Rhodes was working with Langley—technically, so was he, through Rhodes. So why wouldn’t Rhodes have told him Jack was CIA?

He would have, unless Jack wasn’t CIA. But then who was he working for? DIA? DOJ? FBI?