Of course, setting out on a nighttime chase meant leaving the chopper. The very thought conjured another surge of adrenaline and the mental image of returning to find it stripped and up on blocks.

“Bad idea,” she said, pulling out her sat phone and dialing a number from memory.

A powerful encryption routine delayed the connection for a moment but then Fred Klein’s familiar voice came on.

“Did you find anything?”

“Your suspicious mercenary activity. Everyone here is dead.”

“So those villagers wipe out Sarabat under suspicious circumstances and then they themselves are wiped out by an unknown mercenary group.”

“Seems to me that someone helped them take out Sarabat and now they’re covering their tracks. The question is why? Who would care this much about a couple of little villages in the middle of nowhere?”

10

Prince George’s County, Maryland
USA

JON SMITH MOVED DELIBERATELY down the hallway, knowing he was being watched from multiple angles. It had been decorated with tasteful rugs and vases full of fresh flowers, but it would take more than the scent of gardenias to make it feel like anything other than what it was: a deadly shooting gallery designed to deal with anyone who might want to penetrate to the inner offices uninvited.

A former special forces operative appeared at the far end and Smith put a hand up—partially in greeting and partially to prove that it was empty. A brief nod was all he got before the man once again faded into the meticulously polished woodwork.

The Covert-One that had been authorized by the president after the Hades virus disaster was in many ways gone now. At first, it hadn’t been anything more than a precarious and diffuse organization based entirely on trust—the president’s in his lifelong friend Fred Klein, and Klein’s in his loose collection of gifted operators around the world.

As it had proved its effectiveness, though, it had grown. Now C1 had a place to call home and even a modest budget—one quietly siphoned from other government agencies without the knowledge of the American people or Congress.

Its very existence was incredibly dangerous for everyone involved—particularly President Sam Adams Castilla. In truth, Smith had initially suspected that cold feet would prevail and the organization would quickly disappear. Unfortunately, the world was becoming increasingly dangerous, politics increasingly bizarre, and the established intel agencies increasingly bloated. The need for a small, nimble organization that could be deployed on a moment’s notice grew with every war, rogue nuclear program, and terrorist attack.

Smith entered an outer office dominated by a modular desk topped with five massive monitors. All he could see of the inestimable Maggie Templeton was a wisp of graying blond hair over the top of the one in the center.

He was about to say something when her hand rose and a finger pointed toward an open door in the back wall. He took the hint and headed toward it, tossing his jacket on a sofa that looked like it had never been sat on. Best not to talk to her when she was concentrating.