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  She couldn’t feel her senses. She couldn’t think. Her life was being decided by strange and scary people. She could not resist anything. She could not say anything. She did not speak at all.

  Who are they?

  What do they want?

  She was out of the cage now, and on her feet.

  Was she hallucinating?

  A plane. I was on a plane.

  Some men stood around her. They were large men, and they all seemed to have the same facial features, which was to say no facial features. They were just blank, scrubbed out, as if they did not have faces at all.

  One of the blurry faces spoke to her.

  “Don’t worry,” it said. “Be a good girl. Don’t resist.”

  Suddenly, the dark surrounded her again. But this new darkness was different. It was not sleep. It was the dark of blindness. It was the kind of darkness the condemned man experiences when he is put against the wall to be shot.

  They had covered her head with a black hood or sack.

  She stood, not moving, as someone cinched the hood tight. She couldn’t breathe! For a moment, her heart raced in her chest. But then she felt herself sinking again. She would fall, but someone was holding her up.

  One of the men carried her. She felt herself become like some boneless deep sea creature, a jellyfish. Her breathing slowed down, her heart was barely beating, her muscles became limp, and her body was slung over someone’s shoulder.

  She knew it was the end. The woman who hit her had been lying. They weren’t taking her anywhere. There was no new home. It was pointless lying, not for any kind of gain, but because that’s what people did. They just lied for no reason.

  Soon she would be killed. There would be no explanation of anything—just confusion, this deep darkness, and then death.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  March 26, 2006

  10:15 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  The offices of Richmond, Baker, Hancock and Pearl

  K Street, Washington, DC

  Politics is war by other means.

  Don Morris liked to remind himself of this whenever he found himself in places like this one. He walked side by side down a wide corridor with his old friend, the United States Representative from North Carolina, and current House Minority Leader, William Ryan. The carpet beneath their feet was deep pile and dark blue. There was hardly a sound anywhere.

  Bill Ryan was tall and handsome, with graying hair. He carried himself with ruler straight posture, and his large jaw jutted forward as they walked. Even though it was Sunday morning—or perhaps because it was—he wore a sharp blue business suit, black shoes polished and shining.

  Don, in contrast, was more casually dressed in khakis and a blue dress shirt with an open collar. He wasn’t here to supplicate for the Special Response Team budget today. He was here because Bill had asked him for a favor.

  “Here” was the headquarters of a lobbying firm, in the K Street neighborhood that was ground zero for lobbyists and special interests of all kinds. The American Heritage Center. Pro-lifers. The World Bank. If they had an axe to grind, they were around here somewhere.

  A late-middle-aged woman with gray hair, wearing a dark red sweater and slacks, moved ahead of them, walking quickly and with purpose. Don knew the type—they were everywhere here in Washington. The long-time executive assistant, a consummate professional, able to juggle dozens of facts, appointments, problems, and issues in her head, while simultaneously riding herd on a mob of young staffers.

  A woman like this could run the show herself, of course, but she was born too soon. She had probably started out in life fetching coffee for overconfident young Republicans with slick haircuts and their feet up on the desk. Today, on this disaster of a Sunday morning, she was here at work, the most trusted employee of a very powerful man, on a day when his world was falling apart.

  The woman reached a set of wide double doors at the end of the hall, opened them, and turned to wave Don and Bill in.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, “this is Mr. Richmond’s office. Please don’t hesitate to alert me if you need anything while you’re here.”

  “Thank you,” Don said.

  The doors opened into a huge corner office. The ceilings were high and ornate, with crown moldings and an intricate center light fixture. A gleaming oak desk ruled on the far side of the room. Behind it was a long row of windows, giving a panoramic view of Washington Circle at the confluence of K Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, several stories below. Sunday morning traffic, sparse by DC standards, raced silently in each direction. It was springtime, and along the concrete boulevards, the trees were in bloom. The man who occupied this office had arrived, or at one time believed he had.

  The man was here. He stood and came out from behind his desk to meet them. He wore an impeccably tailored blue pinstripe suit and a red tie. He had white hair, narrow shoulders, and a bit of a stoop. His nose was the beak of a vulture, redder than the rest of his face. His eyes were sharp, but bloodshot, and his face was lined. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. Perhaps he was ten years older than Don. Perhaps he was a thousand years older.

  “Don,” Bill Ryan said. “I want to introduce you to my good friend Miles Richmond.”

  The man offered his soft hand, and Don took it, careful not to squeeze it very hard. Men of a certain age often became fragile with arthritis. There was never a way to know until it was too late. Don didn’t have that problem. His problem was not crushing such a hand.

  “Miles, Don Morris and I were at the Citadel together, many years ago, and we’ve remained close. Other than that, I suppose he needs no introduction.”

  Richmond shook his head. He looked Don directly in the eye. “No. No, he doesn’t. You’re a fine American, Don. And we’re very proud of the work you’ve done. The country needs more men like you.”

  “Thank you,” Don said.

  He didn’t offer a compliment in return. America didn’t need any more lobbyists in fancy offices. America didn’t need more vultures tearing the flesh of the body politic. Miles Richmond probably knew what he was without having to be told.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Richmond said.

  He indicated a meeting area with plush high-backed chairs situated on either side of a low, solid block of heavy blond wood. The block made a coffee table of sorts. A thick book, Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, sat upon it. On the cover, a muscular man carried the entire world on his shoulders.

  The men sat down, three chairs in a rough triangle.

  Richmond gestured at the block of wood between them. “A Zen master from Japan gave me this table.”

  “It’s quite something,” Don said. He barely glanced at it.

  “He told me that the key to life…”

  “Miles,” Bill Ryan said, cutting him off. He said it gently, but it stopped Richmond’s patter like a sudden gunshot. Richmond looked at him. His eyes were furtive, almost afraid.

  “This is hard,” Bill said. “We all know that. But there’s no need for games, or niceties, or ice breakers. Don isn’t that kind of man. I don’t think any of us here really are. Let’s just get to it.”

  Now Richmond looked at Don. He saw what was in Don’s eyes, and nodded.

  “Okay. Okay. Don, I want to thank you for taking this meeting.”

  Don shrugged. “Bill and I go all the way back, Miles. He vouched for you. That’s good enough for me.”

  Richmond took a deep breath. He stared at the table now.

  “There was an abduction,” he said. “We think it was Thursday night into Friday morning. Did you read the news about it?”

  “I only know what Bill told me last night. I didn’t want to prejudice my thinking about it. I wanted to hear it from you. The news…”

  Don stopped, then started again. “It’s not how I get my information, generally speaking.”

  “I understand,” Richmond said. He was still staring down at the table. His mouth hung slack for a moment. He spoke, but it was as if he had for
gotten there were others in the room with him.

  “Charlotte. Her name is Charlotte. My youngest son’s daughter. My… uh… my granddaughter. Charlotte. Has disappeared.”

  He looked up at Don, his head moving in a convulsive jerk. Tears were already streaming down his face.

  “I bounced that child on my knee. When she…”

  Richmond’s voice cracked. He shook his head emphatically, tears flying off his cheeks. His teeth were gritted together.

  “When she was small.”

  Don nodded. He felt for Richmond, perhaps more than the man could know. Don had gone through the same experience with Margaret, less than six months ago now, when she was taken by the hijackers. He remembered those moments in the San Juan airport, desperate, alone, like his heart had been ripped out through his chest.

  No. That wasn’t right. There were emotions that could not be explained by words. It was deeper than words, it was an agony from deep in human memory, from a time before language. It was a fire that had burned through Don, burned him away completely, as he tried not to imagine all the terrible things that could be happening to his beloved wife.

  He had come through to the other side, and Margaret had been saved. But that was because men like Luke Stone and Ed Newsam had risked their lives to bring her back. Brian Deckers, a man who had never even met Margaret, had given his life to do so. Don Morris had been lucky to have men like these in his life.

  Miles Richmond did not know such men. But he did know Bill Ryan, and Bill Ryan knew Don. Don was here for that reason—because Miles Richmond and Bill Ryan lived in a world of rich, well-connected and influential men doing each other favors. Don didn’t love that fact, but he did understand, deep in his bones, the terror Richmond was facing.

  A shadow had reached into Richmond’s life, suddenly and without warning, and now it was breaking him. The darkness, the beast, the pure evil that so often seemed to rule this world. It was ripping him to pieces. He was breaking, and when he finally did break, he was going to come all the way apart.

  “We need your help, Don,” Bill said. “If there’s anything at all...”

  “Oh my God,” Richmond said. “Oh my God. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  His chest began to heave, gasping for air. He covered his mouth with his hand. A low moan began to emanate from behind that hand.

  “Miles,” Don said. “I promise you that I will do everything I can. I work with people who…”

  The moaning became louder.

  Then, just like that, the dam, which the man had held in place by an effort of will, broke under the onslaught.

  Miles Richmond, one of the most powerful men in Washington, DC, high born, a multimillionaire, a man who had gone to all the right schools and who had made all the right moves, began to scream.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Queen Anne’s County, Maryland

  Eastern Shore of Chesapeake Bay

  The telephone on the kitchen wall started ringing.

  Luke stared at it. It was an old blue phone, the kind that had hung on kitchen walls for decades. They were disappearing now, gradually being replaced by small black phones that you held in your hand, carried in your pocket, and brought with you wherever you went. The wall phone was a relic from a simpler time.

  Luke ignored the phone for a moment, reached into the refrigerator and came out with a cold beer.

  The weather was fine. The surroundings here were beautiful. He and Becca were at her family’s cabin in Queen Anne’s County for the weekend. The house had been in the family for over a hundred years.

  The place was an ancient, rustic place sitting on a small bluff above Chesapeake Bay. The house was two floors, wooden everything, with creaks and squeaks everywhere. There was a screened-in porch facing the water, and a newer stone patio down a small hill from the house. The patio sat right on the bluff, with commanding 180-degree views of the water. Some mornings Luke walked out of the house in his bare feet, with his coffee cup in hand, and was staggered all over again by the panorama, as if seeing it for the very first time.

  It really was an incredible place. Luke loved it here.

  The only problem was sometimes the house came with Becca’s mother and father. Luke looked out the picture window, at the group of people down on the patio. Becca was there at the table, Gunner on her lap.

  Gunner was ten months old, and zooming toward his first birthday. He was getting big. He wore blue shorts and a yellow pullover fleece today. He was about as cute as humanly possible. His head was huge! Luke liked to think it was because of the brains it held inside there.

  Also present were the in-laws, Audrey and Lance. They had a bottle of white wine on the table with them, and they were getting tipsy.

  Luke picked up the phone.

  “Luke Stone,” he said.

  “Son, it’s Don.”

  Who else would it be on a sleepy Sunday afternoon? The same man who had given Luke and Ed the day off tomorrow.

  “Hi, Don. How are you?”

  “Good. Good. Listen, I’m going to keep this short and sweet. I need you to come in tomorrow, bright and early, and I need you to be prepared for a day or two out of town. Sorry about that.”

  Luke didn’t even try to argue. Don wouldn’t rescind a day off lightly. At the same time, Luke never knew quite what “a day or two out of town” meant. In the past, it had meant a trip to gun battles on the other side of the world.

  “A day or two?” he said.

  “Yes. For real. I was asked to look into a missing person case in North Carolina. We’re going to keep it quiet. I want you and Ed to drop down there and poke around a little. It’s not official SRT business, so we’re not going to get our noses dirty on this. I just want to see if we can turn up anything the locals haven’t.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing someone a favor,” Luke said.

  “That’s what I saw in you when we first met,” Don said. “You catch on quick.”

  There was a pause between them. Luke understood that part of the game, part of what kept the agency alive, was Don scratching backs, and getting his own back scratched in turn. Luke understood it, but he knew very little about it. It wasn’t his department.

  “Trudy Wellington is digging up the details on this as we speak. She’ll have everything for you tomorrow morning. For now, let’s keep this under our hats.”

  Let’s keep this under our hats.

  That meant don’t tell anyone about it. Of course, anyone could be listening to this conversation, and anyone probably was.

  “Sure,” Luke said.

  “Good. Thanks, Stone. I’ll make up the free day for you guys, and I’ll double it. In the meantime, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Luke put the phone back on its cradle. He walked out the screen door and headed down to the patio. The door slammed behind him. The door had tight springs—it always slammed with enthusiasm.

  Everyone at the table looked up and watched him come down the hill. Even Gunner seemed to follow Luke with his eyes. Within reason, Luke was not the paranoid type. And yet, he often had the feeling that people in his own family were eyeing him with suspicion.

  “Did the phone ring?” Becca said.

  Becca’s brown hair was straight and long. Her bright blue eyes were alive and aware. She was as physically beautiful as ever, possibly even more beautiful as she headed into her thirties and embraced motherhood.

  Luke nodded. He took a sip of his beer. It was cold and delicious.

  “It was Don. He needs me to come in tomorrow.”

  “Luke,” Becca said. “We just got here yesterday. He promised you a three-day weekend.”

  “I know it,” Luke said.

  “How is work?” Audrey said.

  Luke gazed at his mother-in-law, taking his time, soaking her in. She had deep-set eyes with irises so dark, they seemed almost black. She had a sharp nose, like a beak. She had tiny bones and a thin frame. She reminded him
of a bird—a crow, or maybe a vulture. And yet, in her own way, she was attractive.

  Audrey St. John was born wealthy, and as a general rule, she frowned upon work. She didn’t understand why someone would do the kind of dangerous, dirty work that occupied Luke Stone. She seemed continually shocked that her own daughter, Rebecca St. John, would marry someone like Luke.

  That had changed a bit when Gunner was born. Audrey went for the jugular a little less often now, and Luke would happily take whatever positive interactions he could get from her.

  “It’s going okay,” he said now, still a little wary, like a fighter circling a dangerous opponent. “It’s been pretty quiet these last months.”

  Luke didn’t mention that it had been quiet since he and Ed and Kevin Murphy had saved the President of the United States from a hijacking to Somalia. That part was classified information, and anyway, among the people at this table, it was understood.

  And quiet didn’t begin to describe how these past months had been.

  Despite the success of the Somalia operation, the FBI brass had decided that the Special Response Team was a rogue department, and needed to be reined in. Until the raid on Friday, Luke and Ed had largely been on the bench while Don Morris negotiated with the higher-ups what kind of agency the SRT would be, what its expertise was, and how its future would unfold. It seemed that at the moment, the SRT had been sidelined.

  Luke had been going a little bit crazy. He’d told Don from the beginning that he wouldn’t be the type of agent who wore a shirt and tie to work every day, sat at a desk, made phone calls, and filed reports. But that’s what he had been doing.

  One day a while back, he got a postcard in the mail. It had been mailed two weeks before, from Cape Town, South Africa. It had a picture of fancy modern houses built onto a mountainside, sloping steeply downward toward the dark blue ocean, just as the sun was setting and night was coming in.

  It said, Cape Town: most beautiful city in the world.

  On the other side, there was a brief note, in a blocky handwritten scrawl. Beautiful continent. Friendly people. Endless opportunity. YOU should be here.