“We know who we’re dealing with,” Friberg said.

“And I know him better,” David continued before they could stop him. “I knew of Casius’s father—went by the name Micha. A sniper for hire who was best known for picking off half a dozen cartel bosses. When his father was killed in that nightclub, Casius was eighteen. He had his father’s touch, to say the least. He came to us one year later. He had no living relatives, no property— nothing. Wanted a job. We put him through our training regimen, but believe me, Casius didn’t need our training. We might have taught him a trick or two, but he was born to kill.”

“He’s unstable,” Friberg said. It sounded more like a command. Like saying, The trash is full, when you really mean, Take the trash out.

“Actually, he’s very much in control of his decisions.”

“The man doesn’t even distinguish between us and the people we pay him to kill. You heard him. In his mind we’re all monsters.”

“He’s a killer. You accuse another killer of being a monster and you’re accusing him of being a monster. That’s understandable.” David paused. “Look, very few agents have the ability to operate at his level. And with that come a few unavoidable consequences, I agree. But you don’t just replace a man like this every day. We could go ten years without finding his equal.”

“I don’t care if it takes twenty years to find his equal—we can’t afford a rogue agent digging around where he has no business digging.” Friberg glared at him. “If Casius becomes a liability, we have no choice but to unplug him. I’m surprised that concerns you.”

“If he becomes a liability, maybe. But I don’t think we’ve reached that point. What if he does take Jamal out? Do we have a problem with that?”

“That’s not the point. His motivation is personal and he’s out of control.”

“I disagree,” David said.

The director turned to Ingersol. As the head of Special Operations the decision would ultimately be Ingersol’s. “And you?” Friberg asked.

Ingersol pulled the red folder toward him. An eight-by-ten photo of Casius, with short black hair and bright blue eyes, was paper-clipped to the left flap. Ingersol studied the photo.

“You think you can draw him in?” he asked David.

“I can always draw him in. I’m his handler.”

“Then bring him in again.”

“And if he won’t come in?” Friberg asked.

No one answered.

Friberg stood. “You’ve got another twenty-four hours,” he said and walked from the room.

THE ROOM was beneath the earth, shrouded in blackness. Only one man knew its location and in reality no one knew that man. His name was Jamal. They hated him or loved him, but they did not know him.

Well, yes, there were those who knew his face and his voice and his money. But they didn’t know him. They didn’t know his loves and his desires and all the reasons why he did what he did. If they knew his passion, it was only the passion to strike out. To exact his revenge.