Chapter Three

April 30, 2011

 

Peruvian Jungle, near the Pacific Coast

 

            “Sable Hawk, this is Delta One. I say again, Sable Hawk, this is Delta One.” Steve Hawkins had to yell into the HST-4 C-2 satcomm to be heard over the din of small arms fire. “Prairie Fire, I say again, Prairie Fire! We are outnumbered and in danger of being overrun. Will activate homing beacon and withdraw to alternate extraction point Bravo. I say again, will activate beacon and withdraw to Bravo. We need air support and extraction immediately! Delta One out.”

            Hawkins dropped the transmitter and fired an HE round from his M-4A1/M-203 into a knot of narcoterrorists that were trying to outflank his position. The blast killed four of them and sent the rest diving for cover, short bursts from the M-4A1 chasing them into the jungle. Shit, what a clusterfuck this op had turned into!

            It was supposed to be a simple hit-and-run on a small cocaine-processing plant in the boondocks of Peru on the Pacific coast near the Ecuador border. Hired clandestinely by the Drug Enforcement Agency, the six-man cell was to HALO (High-Altitude, Low-Opening) jump from a C-130 Hercules cargo aircraft belonging to an Argentinean shipping company that had taken off from Sao Paulo, Brazil. The cell would then hike fifteen miles, avoiding Shining Path terrorists and other left-wing guerrilla groups, and hit the plant at dawn. They would then retreat over the border to be picked up by helicopters from the Latin American Division’s Transportation Bureau.

            The insertion and march had gone flawlessly, but everything had gone to shit when they reached the camp. The perimeter security was triple what the intel had said it would be and they were much better armed and apparently better trained. The original idea of splitting into three groups and clearing the camp building by building was immediately abandoned. It was decided instead to do a quick recon to determine the most vital points of the plant (communications, ammunition dump, the actual processing building, officer’s quarters, etc.), split up and hit those targets from six different directions with Armbrust rocket launchers. Before they did that, however, they would first each toss a pair of white phosphorus grenades into the camp to start fires and create general confusion. Then they would fall back, fire the rocket launchers, rendezvous at a predetermined rallying point, and then withdraw.

            Even that plan, however, fell through. Before the cell could even split up, they were set upon by a pair of twelve-man roving patrols (which the intelligence reports had failed to mention). Billy Williams went down instantly, riddled with AK-74 rounds. The rest of the team suffered superficial flesh wounds before responding to the ambush. They countered by popping smoke and tossing CS and stun grenades at one flank and pouring massive fire into the other.

            Knowing that the mission was a bust and that they had to abort, they immediately made for the border, which meant going through the flank they had raked with automatic weapons fire. Talon Savage and Wade McDowell kept the opposite flank pinned down with fragmentation grenades and short bursts at targets of opportunity. Hawkins, Brad Willis, and Lisa Pelletier fired Armbrusts and the M-203 into the other flank, opening a huge hole in the enemy line and collapsing the ambush. Now, however, they were down one man, wounded, exhausted, running low on ammunition, and being pursued by practically the whole camp.

            They withdrew as rapidly as they could, Hawkins periodically contacting their support base over the border to keep them informed and to find out when their air support and extraction would appear. The cell paused at irregular intervals to lay land mines, set booby traps with frag grenades and Claymore mines, and to engage their pursuers in short, pitched firefights. Their efforts killed many of the enemy and slowed the pursuit, but it also drained their ammunition supply and got Willis and McDowell killed. 

            Hawkins, Savage, and Pelletier were sprinting nearly full tilt through the jungle now, desperately trying to put as much distance between themselves and their pursuers as possible, and to reach the LZ and relative safety. They finally burst out of the jungle and into the clearing that had been preselected during mission planning as their alternate pickup point in time to hear the distinctive whup-whup-whup of rotor blades. Paranoid to the point of thinking the choppers might be Mi-24 Hinds belonging to the drug dealers; the trio dropped to their knees and aimed their last remaining Armbrusts at the sky.

            The three helicopters that came screaming over the treetops, however, were Aerospatiale SA 365M Panthers, painted jet black with no identifying marks. Two of the sleek helos streaked over the jungle behind the cell to search for their pursuers with thermal imagers and then pound them with Brandt 68-36 rocket launchers and M621 20mm gun pods. The third chopper settled broadside to the cell and popped open its side door to reveal a General Electric M134 7.62mm minigun on a pintle mount. The three Jedi turned and fired their Armbrusts into the jungle behind them to further discourage pursuit and then sprinted for the stationary Panther.

            Then disaster struck. A half-dozen narcoterrorists had held back from the main group to set up a Type 53 82mm mortar. Being separated from the main body, they had been missed by the thermal imagers in the first two Panthers, and so were able to target the clearing unimpeded. The first two rounds bracketed the ragged trio, the second narrowly missing putting the Panther out of commission. As the rescue chopper took off out of harm’s way, a third mortar impacted, shredding Hawkins and Pelletier and tossing Savage over fifty yards away like a rag doll, battered, bruised, and bleeding from multiple light shrapnel wounds.

            The pilot of the third Panther, having directed the other two towards the mortar emplacement, set his helicopter down almost on top of Savage and disgorged a heavily armed five-man fire team to bring him in. The mission was a total disaster. Though a large number of narcoterrorists had been killed, the camp itself was still intact. One Panther was lightly damaged, large sums of money had been spent for nothing, and, worst of all, five Jedi were dead, their bodies unrecoverable due to the fortunes of war.

********* 

            The ring of the phone brought Savage out of his nightmarish recollection of that fatal night in Peru. He awoke from his troubled slumber soaked in sweat, his heart beating like a triphammer, his breath coming in explosive bursts. By the time he had collected himself, the answering machine had picked up the incoming call. Still wiping the perspiration from his brow, Savage interrupted the machine and answered the phone. 

            “Hello?”

            “Mr. Savage?” The smooth English accent of Nigel Lassiter replied from the other end of the line. “Good morning. How are you?”

            “Nigel.” Savage’s greeting was far more informal than the Briton’s. “I’m fine. What’s up?”

            “Mr. Dotson would like to gather us all together again later today for lunch. There are some final details about the cell he would like to go over, and apparently the lads and lasses from the local Logistics and Analysis Bureaus have dug up some intelligence for us already on our targets. Can you make it?”

            “What time is it now?” Savage asked, groggily looking for his watch.

            “Ten-fifteen,” Lassiter replied. “Jarrett would like us to meet him in his office at one.”                

            “Yeah, sure, no problem. One P.M. I’ll be there.” 

************ 

            Jarrett Dotson’s office was smaller and more intimate than the JSOC Miami conference room, and also more opulent. The room was a warm menagerie of cherry and teak, brass and gold, leather and beveled glass. Lush, thick carpeting covered the floor from wall to wall, and Yanni played softly from hidden Dolby surround sound speakers. Personal amenities accented the decor, ranging from personal photographs of Dotson’s friends and family to similar pictures of himself with teammates from various SEAL, SOG, and Phoenix missions in Vietnam. Miscellaneous trophies brought home from Southeast Asia, made of everything from bamboo to jade, littered the shelves. All of his medals from his military service were prominently displayed on one plaque, and others offered some of his favorite quotes. Most notably among these was the “Ten Commandments of SpecWar,” written by the first commanding officer in SEAL Team Six.

            Savage was familiar with all of this, having been in the office before on several occasions. One of the many things that made JSOC attractive to work for was that Dotson insisted on meeting every single employee of the company at least once, and some, such as Savage, who had distinguished themselves in the service of the company, more than once. So Savage felt comfortable and at ease as he joined his new teammates to listen to what Dotson had to say.

            “Good afternoon gentlemen. Ms. Falconieri,” Dotson began, “Thank you for coming. Feel free to help yourselves to the food on the coffee table.” He gestured to the buffet arrayed on the table, ranging from salad and sandwiches to thick seafood chowder. Savage noticed that Falconieri and Lyons ate only the salad. He grabbed a ham and cheese on rye and a Bud Light from an ice-filled chest and listened as Dotson continued.

            “What I’d like to accomplish today is to settle the command and control structure of your new cell, give it a name, give each of you call signs, and give you all a possible lead with which you can begin your long-term assignment. Questions?” After getting no response, the ex-SEAL continued. “The cell will be named the Omega cell. You are our last chance, our final option. A bit melodramatic, I admit, but also rather fitting. Nigel Lassiter will be the Cell Leader, call sign Merlin.”

            “I’m not that old, Jarrett,” the Englishman protested mockingly. Dotson smiled and moved on.

            “Ashlyn Falconieri, call sign Wildcat, will be the Deputy Cell Leader. In remaining order of rank, Talon Savage, call sign Gambit, after the Marvel Comics Cajun X-Man character…”

            “Maybe you get me some o’ ‘dem explodin’ playing cards, eh, mon ami?” Savage wisecracked, purposefully thickening his Cajun accent. Dotson again broke into a grin and continued.

            “Denzel Coryatt, call sign Switchboard. You’ll be the main communications man, Denzel.” Dotson was aware that Coryatt had held the exact same responsibility for his team while he was with the Special Investigations Section. “Greg Miller, your call sign will be Bulldog. I imagine that’s pretty appropriate.” Miller bared his teeth in a smile that showed his agreement. “And finally, last but not least, Roman Lyons’ call sign will be Swamp Rat.”

            “Now that we’ve all been formally reintroduced,” Lyons quipped, “what’s this hot new intel you have for us?”

            Dotson nodded and hit the intercom. “Willie, could you bring in the intelligence dossiers the Logistic and Analysis Bureaus’ team assembled last night, please?” He turned his attention back to the Omega Cell. “The gist of it is this: starting at nine o’clock tonight, a big bash is being thrown at the Hilton here in town. The theme of this evening’s festivities? Arab brotherhood.”  At this point Graf entered and handed out a thick manila folder to each of the operatives, then left. “I had some of our best people work overtime last night on this, and their hard work paid off. They were able to hack into the hotel’s database and get a list of all the guests currently staying at the hotel, all the employees of the hotel, and the guest list of all the people invited to tonight’s little soirée.”

            “Score,” Greg Miller breathed part in amazement at the “geeks’” prowess, and part in profound satisfaction.

            “Indeed,” Dotson agreed. “We then cross-referenced all of those names with our own database of known or suspected IJI members, as well as the databases from the FBI, the CIA’s CounterTerrorist Group, Interpol, and Der Kommissar, the German government’s computer dedicated solely to counterterrorism. The end product is now in your hands.” He gestured to the folders the operatives had by now opened and were poring over. “All of these individuals are known or suspected members of the IJI. None of them are employees of the Hilton, but most of them are guests staying there, and the rest are arriving there tonight for the party. The Logistics and Analysis boys, if Ms. Falconieri will pardon my use of the male specific, are currently working on tracing the route of origin of these individuals, checking databases of the airlines, car rental agencies, other hotels, as well as Customs and the INS.”

            “So what are we supposed to do with all of this?” Lyons queried. “You’re not expecting us to make a hit in the ballroom of the Hilton, are you?”

            “We can do a lot of things with this information,” Falconieri replied. “Know thy enemy, kid. If we know names, ages, business affiliations, addresses, anything and everything we can about these scumbags, we can set up all kinds of operations for later dates. Surveillance, stakeouts, ambushes, assassinations, snatches, you name it.”

            “She’s right, Roman,” Coryatt agreed. “We certainly can’t turn the Hilton into a bloodbath, especially not with noncombatants mixed in with the terrorists, but we can’t let an opportunity like this slip by. Any chance to know as much as possible about the IJI has to be taken advantage of.  Who knows what they might discuss amongst each other tonight? Timetables, targets, methods of operation, accomplices, suppliers, financiers, possibly even phone numbers and addresses.”

            “None of which is going to do us the slightest bit of good,” Miller cut in, “if we aren’t invited. And last I looked, we ain’t.”

            “Perhaps you should look again, young Jedi.” Nigel Lassiter pointed to Jarrett Dotson, who sat smiling like the Chesire cat behind his oversized oak desk, holding a single press pass in his hand, along with a half-dozen tickets to that evening’s banquet at the Hilton. 

************ 

            Ashlyn Falconieri savored the perfection of a cloudless spring evening in Miami as she walked up the driveway to Talon Savage’s front door. She wore an elegant black evening gown from Gianni Versace that flattered her striking figure considerably, and inwardly shuddered at what she thought Savage would consider “appropriate” attire for the night’s formal affair.

            Although his file had assuaged some of her concerns about the Cajun as an operator, she still had her doubts about him as a man. He drank like a fish, ate like a pig, dressed like a biker, and badly needed a shave. She was sure that Dotson’s pairing her with him for tonight had been preplanned as some sort of sick joke.

            It had been decided that the cell would arrive at the banquet singly or in pairs and at various points in the evening to avoid attracting to much attention to themselves. Roman Lyons held the press pass, as his appearance didn’t exactly lend itself to a cover story of him being a wealthy donor to the cause or a prospective convert. The latter alibi was reserved for Denzel Coryatt and Greg Miller, who arrived individually within fifteen minutes of each other earlier in the evening. Nigel Lassiter was the first member of Omega Cell to appear at the Arab Brotherhood banquet, on the arm of Evelyn Waters.

            Falconieri and Savage would be the last to show up, “fashionably late”, as Savage had sarcastically put it. If she could just stomach spending the entire evening with him… She drew in a deep breath to steel herself for the impending disaster and rang the doorbell.

            “Hello?” Savage’s voice answered the bell from a speaker next to a miniature video camera above the left-hand corner of the door. Falconieri turned to face the camera.

            “It’s Ashlyn, Mr. Savage. Are you ready?”

            “Almost. Come on in, the door’s unlocked.”

            Falconieri entered, pleasantly surprised by the modern, yet conservatively tasteful, decor of his house. ‘Must be his wife’s taste,’ she thought. A powerful aroma had assaulted her immediately upon entering, and she followed that smell, even though the heavy scent of meat (she was a devout vegetarian and a member of PETA) revolted her. The trail ended in the kitchen, where Savage stood, dressed only in a pair of sweatpants, eating the biggest, most foul-smelling, disgusting-looking burger she had ever seen.

            “What in God’s name is that?” she exclaimed, pointing at the monstrosity.

            Savage broke into a wide grin as he swallowed a bite. “This is a One-Eye Burger, or actually a variation thereof. It’s a combination of burgers I’ve had at Ole Susannah’s in Lancaster, New Hampshire (which, sadly, has since burned down), and The Great Lost Bear in Portland, Maine. You start with an oversized English muffin, add a quarter-pound of ground beef (medium-well, if you please), a half-dozen strips of bacon, a slice of cheddar and a slice of American, mushrooms and gravy, and the piéce de resistance, one jumbo-sized, grade-A fried egg.”

            “Ugh.” Falconieri shuddered visibly and walked out of the room, shaking her head. Savage chuckled and finished the One-Eye, washing it down with a bottle of Bud Dry.

            “Do you have any idea what that shit is going to do your arteries?” she called out from the living room, examining his rather extensive library. “They’re going to be harder than the buttstock of an AK in less than three years.”

            “They’re not hardening. They’re getting armor-plated,” he replied with a laugh. “Look, I still need to get ready for the party. Why don’t you make yourself at home? I’ll only be a few minutes. Use whatever you like. What’s mine is yours.” With that he went upstairs to the master bedroom.

            When he came back down to the living room he found Falconieri perusing the titles in his collection of books and magazines and listening to “Evita.” She obviously had heard him descend the stairway, because she began speaking to him without turning to face him.

            “I don’t know why you just ate that… that thing,” she said. “They will be serving food and beverage at the party.” She continued to browse through his collection of books and magazines.

            “I know,” he replied. “And that’s precisely why I had something to eat and drink here. I’d rather have some real food in me as a buffer for all that sushi, fish eggs, rabbit food, and watered-down champagne.” He was gratified to hear her actually chuckle at that remark. Maybe he wouldn’t be spending the night on the arm of a politically-correct, anal-retentive iceberg, after all.

            “You know, Mr. Savage…”

            “Talon, please. The name is Talon.”

            “All right. You know, Talon, I must say I really am impressed. After our first encounter, I didn’t give you much credit for being anything other than a testosterone-laden biker wanna-be. But your library is quite extensive and shows you might actually have some culture.” With her back still turned to him, she failed to see him shake his head and smile at her remarks. “While your collections of Playboy and Pro Football Weekly don’t surprise me, I’m rather pleasantly shocked to see Newsweek, Time, the Wall Street Journal and the Business Investor’s Weekly. Authors like Tom Clancy, J.C. Pollock and de Tocqueville. J.R.R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis. Even Michael Crichton and Robert Ludlum.”

            “Some of your musical tastes are exquisite, as well. I expected the Whitesnake, Van Halen, Dokken, and the like. But to also find Andrew Lloyd Webber?  Mozart, Bach, Paganini, and Chopin? Andre Segovia? Very impressive. Too bad your looks don’t match the apparent man inside.”

            “Perhaps they do,” he retorted. “Why don’t you shut up, turn around, and take a look for yourself?”

            She spun around at that, an angry backlash on her lips, fully expecting the man to be naked, erect, and leering at her lewdly, finally revealing himself to be the pig she was certain he was all along. She even began to bring her hands up in an aikido defensive maneuver before she actually saw him. When she did see him, her hands dropped, the angry words died on her lips, and her expression turned from one of rage to one of surprise.

            His face was now clean-shaven, revealing a tanned, smooth complexion, strong jawline, and a cleft chin. His long hair had been pulled back into a fashionable pony-tail. The seemingly ever-present Persol sunglasses were gone, replaced by wire-rimmed reading glasses that accented his deep black eyes. Finally, his normal repertoire of denim and leather clothing had been turned in for a custom-tailored black (jacket and trousers) and white (shirt, tie, and vest) tuxedo.

            “Now I am impressed,” she breathed, walking over to him and running her hands admiringly over the fabric of the jacket. “Tuxedo by Giorgio Armani, shoes by Gucci, watch by Vacheron & Constantine, accented with just the right touches of Italian gold and South African diamonds.”

            Now Savage was impressed. “Very good.”

            A pensive frown crossed Falconieri’s face, however, and she looked at him tentatively. “It’s a shame that it all, not to mention my dress, is going to get ruined on that bike of yours, though.”

            “Who said we were taking the Apache?”

            Her face brightened at that. “Then you don’t mind if I drive?”

            “I didn’t say that either.”

            “But I really don’t think you’ll mind my taste in cars.” She strode over to one of the windows and beckoned him to look outside. When he did so, he was presented with the view of a liquid black 1995 Lamborghini Diablo VT glistening in the moonlight. The sleek, powerful automobile looked menacing and feral just standing still.

            “Not bad,” Savage approved. “Not bad at all. But I had something else in mind. Shall we?” He held out his arm for her to take and, after a momentary pause, she did so, albeit with a questioning look in her eye. He walked her through the house to the garage, where after having the door held open for her by an overacting Savage she was confronted with a sight that took her breath away. He came up behind her and looked over her left shoulder with fatherly pride showing on his face.

            It was a midnight blue Jaguar XJ-220, one of only 350 ever built (other owners included Elton John and Mick Jagger). Over $750,000 worth of 212-mph automobile that could reach sixty in 3.5 seconds. It could hit (and exceed) the speed limit in less time than the fastest NFL wide receiver could cover forty yards! It was his pride and joy. 

************ 

            The Miami Hilton was a towering structure of mirrored glass and burnished steel that dominated the local skyline. Inside, a throng of well-to-do socialites, some with less-than-honorable intentions for their millions, mingled amongst one another and their Arab benefactors. Wandering through lush carpeting and marble pillars, sporting the latest fashions from Guy Laroche, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton, and other top designers, the function was as much a dog and pony show for the rich and famous as a benefit ball. Savage and Falconieri had noticed that the parking garage was almost as opulent as the ballroom, with a nearly decadent display of automobiles (mostly foreign) that cost more than most houses.

            Savage was pleasantly surprised that the Dom Perignon was not watered down as he made his way through the crowd, keeping his eyes and ears open during apparently meaningless conversations. Falconieri abstained from the alcohol, contenting herself with Perrier water as she, too, worked the masses for any possible intelligence on the IJI. They paid particular attention to faces they recognized from the dossiers compiled by the Logistics and Analysis Bureaus the night before. The pair made an effective team. Savage proved, much to the still-skeptical Falconieri’s surprise, to be quite intelligent and articulate on a wide variety of topics as he subtly charmed the sequin-adorned ladies of the party. Ashlyn needed no such subtly or brainpower. As she had so often discovered in the past, her exotic looks, slim body, and ample bust (suitably enhanced by a plunging neckline) drove men to distraction. It was pathetically easy to play the role of the airhead and manipulate men into revealing sensitive information.

            The duo kept an occasional eye on their teammates throughout out the course of the evening, as well. Roman Lyons looked the part of a tabloid photographer, wearing designer jeans, a t-shirt with a sportscoat over it, and three days of stubble. A top-of-the-line Minolta digital camera rounded out the image. He stayed close to the bar and plied those patrons he deemed as having had too much to drink with seemingly innocuous questions. Denzel Coryatt played the part of the prospective convert to Islam, while Greg Miller made it readily apparent that he was willing to part with large sums of his money for Allah. Needless to say, both men garnered a great deal of attention from the organizers of the event.

            “Good evening Mr. Savage. Ms. Falconieri.” Nigel Lassiter eased his way through the crowd to join them by a picture window that looked out upon an illuminated fountain, Evelyn Waters on his left arm. “I trust your finding the night’s entertainment educational?”

            “Oh, you could say that,” Ashlyn replied, discreetly lifting a miniature digital audio recorder from her Nubuck suede purse. “Each one of these recorders holds a half an hour worth of audio, and I’ve already gone through three of them.”

            “Excellent. And you, Mr. Savage? Have you also come so well prepared?”

            “Please, Nigel, the name is Talon.” Savage’s look was pained at the Brit’s formality. “And I have a photographic memory.” The Seminole shrugged at Lassiter’s raised eyebrow. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

            “Among other things,” Evelyn Waters murmured seductively, brazenly looking Talon up and down. Falconieri rolled her eyes, but Savage decided to play along, anyway. Waters’ custom-made designer gown left little to the imagination, something she had used to the same effect as Ashlyn, and Talon made a show of suggestively checking her over.

            “That’s a lovely dress, chère,” he said with an appreciative grin. “What there is of it. I’m not even going to ask you where you’ve got your gun tucked away.”

            “Well, maybe if you’re a good little boy,” she purred, walking up to him and trailing a finger down his chest, “I’ll show you. If, of course, you show me yours!”

            “Ahem!” Savage coughed in mock discomfort, politely removing her hand as it continued to travel lower. “Behave, Renarde, behave. We are here to work, not play.” With that, he gave her a playful little shove in the form of a pat on the rump, to which she pouted, and then strutted into the crowd. Her emerald green dress accented her blond hair perfectly, and its cut revealed a generous amount of thigh, bare back, and cleavage. She was soon surrounded by men, which she worked for information with a practiced ease.

            “I suppose I better go keep her out of trouble,” Lassiter sighed. “I am supposed to be her date, after all.” He moved into the throng with a purpose, getting close enough to her to be able to lend a hand if necessary, but staying far enough away so he wouldn’t break the spell she had cast upon her enraptured audience.

            “Why did you call her Renarde? I thought her name was Evelyn.” Ashlyn still had a barely concealed look of contempt on her face at the way Waters had blatantly flirted with Savage.

            “It is,” Savage replied. “Renarde is a nickname. It’s French for ‘fox.’ Rather appropriate, don’t you think?”

            “Hmm. I suppose.” She sounded distinctly unconvinced as she watched Waters flaunt for her captive would-be suitors. “She must be very good at what she does.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Something in Falconieri’s tone of voice rubbed Savage the wrong way.

            “That dress she’s wearing is a Yamamoto. Even if it were used, it would have cost her about ten grand. Given the way it fits her, I’d say it’s custom tailored, which means it’s brand new, which means it probably cost her around $25,000!”

            “Evelyn Waters is one of the best operators in the history of this company. She’s been here practically since its inception, and every dime she’s made has been at a distinct risk of losing her life.” It was only with an extreme effort that Savage kept his tone even. Nevertheless, Ashlyn realized he had bristled at the inference she had made in her remark.

            “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean anything by that,” she apologized. Talon held up his hand and shook his head.

            “No, I’m sorry. I’m just a little edgy lately.” He didn’t bother to elaborate, but his spat with Sarelle still bothered him. “Look, there’s still a few hours left of this shindig, so let’s make the most of it.” He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?” She smiled and took his arm, and they made their way back into the ball to gather more information.

Chapter Two

           The clouds were finally starting to thin, the sun actually peeking through the gray on occasion as Savage made his way through the parking garage. As he mounted his motorcycle, he noticed the other vehicles around him for the first time. He had been too preoccupied with the thoughts of his dead teammates when he had arrived, but now that he had a new mission and a new cell, he forced himself to clear his mind and become more alert. The thought that he could have just as easily been a target of the IJI as any other Jedi was a sobering one. The mental and emotional state that he had been in for the past five weeks would have made him an easy target.

            The majority of the cars surrounding him were luxury sedans owned by the company VIPs. Mercedes, BMWs, Jaguars and Lexus practically dominated the level. Dotson’s own Bentley Nepal convertible stood out even in that display of wealth. The other five vehicles doubtlessly belonged to the other operatives. Savage was firmly convinced that the garishly painted Dodge Viper belonged to the kid, Roman Lyons. Gut instinct made him guess that the 1957 BMW 507 convertible was Nigel Lassiter’s. He could only speculate on the owners of the other three automobiles: a Lamborghini Diablo, a Ferrari Testarossa, and a McLaren F1.

            Savage’s own bike, a Next World Design Apache Warrior growled to life as he gunned the engine and rolled out of the garage onto the street. The jet black, futuristic cycle effortlessly navigated the downtown traffic and drew more than its share of stares. From the Walton Tower, Savage drove north up SW 7th Avenue, took I-395 east and crossed over Biscayne Bay on the MacArthur Causeway before turning south off of 5th  Street onto a secluded drive that led to his elegant contemporary home on the southernmost tip of Miami Beach.

            He parked the bike under the roof of the covered entry and dismounted, not relishing the thought of the upcoming confrontation with his wife. Sarelle Jamison Savage had never approved of his joining JSOC, a sentiment her family had vehemently shared. Her dislike for his line of work was only reinforced when he had returned from that ill-fated mission five weeks ago. The look on her face and the tone in her voice when she had handed him the phone earlier in the morning, announcing that it was Jarrett Dotson on the line, was something he preferred to forget. This was not going to be pleasant.

            As he walked through the front door, the mouthwatering aroma of Italian food instantly assaulted his senses, telling him she was in the kitchen fixing up a batch of her exquisite cavatelli alla puttanesca. He hung up his longcoat in the closet in the entryway, took a deep breath to prepare himself for the inevitable argument, and then strode through the dining room into the kitchen.

            Sarelle stood over the sink, her back to him, wearing faded jeans and a cotton pullover that clung to her body, showing off the trim figure that helped her become the head cheerleader at Florida State University. She had pulled her natural blonde hair into a ponytail and tied it up with an old bandanna. She hummed along to the latest Shania Twain CD as she cleaned up some of her cooking utensils. Talon could only lean against the wall and smile. Even when she wasn’t trying to be, she was a strikingly attractive woman. When she was trying, she was devastating.

            “Hi, Honey. I’m home.”

            She started, surprised by his voice, not having heard the bike over the compact disc player in the Bose home entertainment center in the family room. She smiled at him over her shoulder, dried her hands, and then went over to him to give him a hug and a peck on the lips.

            “Where’s Taija?” he asked, referring to their four-year-old daughter.

            “She’s upstairs in her room, taking a nap.”

            He nodded as he went over to the refrigerator and opened up a bottle of Bud Light.  She leaned back against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed over her chest, the look on her face expectant, angrily braced for the worst.

            “Well?”

             He looked at her over the bottle of beer, hesitated, and then took another long pull from the bottle before setting it down and preparing himself for this “discussion.”

            “Jarrett wants me back.”

            “And…?”

            “And… I accepted. I’m going back.”

            She threw her hands up in the air and exploded. “I do not believe this! You knew what this ‘meeting’ was going to be about. You knew he was going to do this, and you knew I didn’t want you to!”

            “Yeah, I knew. I knew everything. But this is something I have to do. I don’t feel any different about the job now than I did when I first joined. I just needed time to get over… I just needed time.”

            “Why go back to this? Do you want to die? Do you want to widow me and orphan Taija?” There was as much fear as anger in her voice now.

            “No, of course not…”

            “Then why? For God’s sake, why?”

            “Because it’s the only thing I was ever good at.”

            “Bullshit! Everyone in the world agreed that you could have been one of the best at what you used to do if you could’ve just come back from the knee surgery.  Well, you obviously did that.”

            “Oh, come on,” his voice was laced with disgust. “You want me to go back and play a game for a living? Get real.” She started to speak, but he cut her off. “No. We went over this when I first decided to go to JSOC. I need to do something meaningful with my life. I want to do something I can be proud of when I die.”

            “And you weren’t proud of what you used to be?”

            “Not compared to what I do now, no. I can make a difference now. I can do something real. I actually do something to make the world a better place. Before I used to just make people forget how bad the world was every Sunday.”

            “But…”

            Talon cut his wife off again. “No. I’m sorry, honey, but I have to do this. My mind is made up. I have to get back in the saddle. I have to start doing something with my life. If I just keep moping around I’m going to go nuts. Doing this is the only thing that means anything to me anymore.”

            “Even more than your wife and daughter?”

            “You know that’s not what I meant.”

            “Well that’s what it sounds like.”

            “Look, this is going to get to the point where you’re going to say things we’re both going to regret. I’m going back. Period. End of story. I’m getting back in the saddle. You can either come along for the ride…or you can get left behind. Your choice, babe. It’s your call.”

*************** 

            At eleven-thirty, Talon Savage lay soaking in the hot tub in the first floor solar greenhouse. Sarelle had fled sobbing upstairs to the deck outside the master bedroom when he had effectively ended the conversation. He had gone into the living room and watched “Traitor” on his Sony Blu-Ray player and Bravia LCD HDTV. Just as the movie ended the familiar bell-like tone from his Sony Vaio notebook told him that the email with the records of his new teammates had arrived. Picking up the notebook and fixing himself a tall, strong Long Island Iced Tea, he had retired to the greenhouse.

            His teammates’ files had made interesting reading. Lassiter was almost as old as Dotson. He was ex-SAS (the elite British Special Air Service) and had seen combat in Gambia, Zimbabwe, the Falklands, Northern Ireland, Iraq and Kuwait. He had also participated in Operation Nimrod, the storming of the Iranian Embassy in London in 1980. He had a long-standing feud with the Irish Republican Army, having assassinated many of its members as part of both the SAS and JSOC, and also on his own private time. When the IRA and its political arm, Sinn Fein, finally gave up in 1994, the more fanatical of its members formed a new, ultra-violent splinter group known as RAID (the Revolutionary Army for Irish Democracy) and rather single-mindedly tried to hunt Lassiter down. That’s what had made him come to Miami. Latest intelligence showed that RAID was still trying to track him down, but that they thought he was still somewhere in the British Isles.

            Ashlyn Falconieri was only about a month younger than Savage. She had joined JSOC straight out of college, a Computer Science major at Kyoto University. She was fluent in Japanese, very familiar with Japanese culture, customs, and history, and held a black belt in aikido. She’d been with JSOC for four years now, with most of her assignments coming with a cell in the Far Eastern Division. Hers had been a small, three-person cell, and the other two had decided to retire and enjoy the fruits of their labors while they still could. The fact that she was a woman did not bother Savage in the least. Unlike most people, he knew that fully two-thirds of the world’s top professional assassins were female.

            The file on Roman Lyons, on the other hand, bothered Savage a great deal. He was a “jarhead”, as Savage preferred to call the United States Marines. An All-American inside linebacker from southern California who joined the Marine Corps straight out of high school. After ending his tour of duty with a year in Force Recon he had come right to JSOC. While he had a great deal of respect for the Force Recon platoons, Savage was still worried about the kid. Everything about him said he was still “gung-ho”, from the sun-bleached crew-cut to the bronzed Muscle Beach physique. The once-broken nose and tasteless paint job on the Viper didn’t help either. Worst of all, he was a rookie. He had yet to taste the fear of combat.

            Denzel Coryatt and Greg Miller came from radically different backgrounds. Coryatt had lettered in soccer, swimming, and track in both high school and college and had his Ph.D. in medicine. For years he had been a surgeon before the allure of something more exciting had beckoned him, and he wound up in the Los Angeles Police Department. His noteworthy martial prowess and reckless attitude towards getting the job done had quickly garnered the attention of his superiors, and they had transferred him to a unit where they thought he would be more effective. Before the squad was essentially brought down by bad press and Internal Affairs, Coryatt had spent three years with the Special Investigations Section.

            Miller had come from a bad neighborhood, no money, no parents, his sister a hooker until her pimp had opened her up with a switchblade in a crack-induced rage. Miller’s education didn’t even reach high school; he’d been too busy running with the gangs in Boston’s “Combat Zone”. It wasn’t until his sister’s murder that he had ever considered doing something useful with his life. Her death had profoundly shocked him, and his grandfather, his legal guardian after his parents had abandoned him, jumped on the new opportunity to turn the boy around. When Greg Miller passed his GED equivalency exam, he immediately went to the Drug Enforcement Agency. His rise through the DEA’s ranks had been rapid as an undercover detective, and he had finished his career as a member of the elite, though little-known, Clandestine Laboratory Enforcement Team.

            All in all, Savage found himself satisfied with his teammates as a whole.  He even grudgingly admitted that Lyons’ training was as good a start as a rookie could get, and that his weaknesses could be covered by the rest of the cell and a little luck. Lassiter was the logical choice for Cell Leader with his experience from the Special Air Service, his private vendetta against RAID, and his time with JSOC. Savage thought Falconieri or himself would make a good Deputy Leader in the likely event that the cell was split during the assignment. Miller and Coryatt had more experience from the SIS or CLET, but they were little more than rookies in the eyes of JSOC. Between the six of them, they had a wide range of skills and talents at their command. All were proficient with firearms, various martial arts, and small-unit tactics. Coryatt was the obvious choice for the cell’s medic and Falconieri would be the “geek” because of her computer skills. Miller should be able to interact with the underworld of Miami or any English-speaking city, and Lassiter was bound to have contacts with international counterterrorist units and intelligence agencies. 

************** 

            As Talon Savage evaluated his new teammates, Nigel Lassiter was also contemplating the individuals he would be entrusting his life to in the near future. His Dell notebook had received the same email about the same time as Savage’s Vaio, and when Lassiter had opened the .pdf file attachment he had brought the Dell into the study of his luxurious forty-seventh story condominium on Collins Avenue overlooking Miami Beach. Sipping from a glass of cognac, the cascading notes of Chopin playing softly in the background, Lassiter relaxed in a butter-soft brown leather recliner and intently studied the dossiers of his new teammates.

            The file of Talon Savage was the last set of documents Lassiter read. Savage was a graduate of Stanford University, an English Literature major who attended on a full football scholarship. After graduating upon completion of his senior year he was drafted in the first round by the Atlanta Falcons. He started immediately at quarterback and took the Falcons to the playoffs for the first time since 1991. The next year he guided them to the NFC South title, their first since 1980, and a Super Bowl championship, their first ever. He was a consensus Rookie of the Year when he broke into the NFL and a unanimous MVP the following year.

            Then the bottom fell out of his career. After winning the Super Bowl, he traveled to Honolulu to play in the Pro Bowl, the NFL’s annual all-star game. Late in the first quarter, just a split second after throwing a deep touchdown pass, he was hit by a rushing defensive end. The force and angle of the hit practically destroyed his right knee, at the least forcing him to miss the following season, at most ending his career, depending upon the success of the surgery. The surgery ultimately proved extremely successful, but something made Talon Savage decide that he no longer wanted the fame and millions that a career in the NFL virtually guaranteed.

            He joined JSOC once his doctors cleared his knee, and, with the demanding instructors keeping a very close eye on him, waltzed through the rigorous selection process. He was a veteran of nineteen assignments with his previous cell, all of them successful except for the last one, a drug interdiction raid deep in the Peruvian jungle. The cell had been ambushed; apparently the victims of a setup, and all had died except for Savage.

            Lassiter had the same basic evaluations and reservations about his new cell as Savage did. His biggest worry about Savage was how well the young man would recover from the emotional trauma of losing five close friends. The way he recovered from the knee surgery and abandoned the NFL to risk his life for others spoke volumes about his character and resiliency in Lassiter’s eyes, but the wily Briton still had his doubts. 

************* 

            Talon Savage had set aside his Vaio and finished his drink to close his eyes and immerse himself in the relaxing sensations of the hot tub. As he started to slip away into a doze, he became aware of subtle differences in his environment. The lights he had been reading by had started to dim, eventually reaching a level about equivalent to dusk. He started to reach for his pistol, lying on top of the notebook, when music began to softly play over the Bose speakers hidden amongst the foliage in the greenhouse. An Enigma CD, one of Sarelle’s favorites. Savage relaxed.

            Moments later, she appeared, coming down the staircase that led from the greenhouse directly to their bedroom. She held a bottle of Perrier Jouet and two champagne glasses in one hand and a small pail of ice in the other. As he had noticed earlier, she was beautiful enough without trying, but when she put her mind to it…

            She had let her flowing blond hair down and arranged it perfectly. Her makeup was just right and as she drew closer he could smell the aroma of her perfume, Yves St. Laurent’s Opium. She wore a black three-piece teddisette from Frederick’s of Hollywood that he had gotten her the previous Christmas. He drew his breath in sharply and felt himself swell and grow rigid under the surface of the water.

            No words were spoken. She entered the tub without removing her lingerie, straddling him as she set the champagne, glasses, and ice pail down next to the hot tub. She popped the cork on the champagne and poured them each a glass, handing one to him. After she recorked the bottle and set it in the ice, they intertwined their arms, something they had not done since their wedding day, and drained their glasses. She smiled down at him as she set the glasses aside.

            He tried once to speak, but she quickly silenced him with an index finger placed gently upon his lips. Her smile became a wanton grin, her eyes filled with hunger as he took the finger into his mouth and sucked on it, nibbling gently. She leaned forward and attacked his ear with her mouth, probing with her tongue, sucking and biting his earlobe. He moved under her, and she responded, moving her hips, rocking them over his member, teasing them both.

            They kissed long and hungrily, tongues searching each other’s mouths, each breathing in the other’s moans and sighs. His hands found her breasts, squeezing the full, pliant mounds of flesh, brushing and gently pinching the stiffened nipples. She covered his hands with hers and continued to move her hips over his, teasing him and herself mercilessly. She could clearly feel his large erection through the thong panties of the tedisette, and she reveled in the delicious sensation of his length sliding between her nether lips, never entering her, and rubbing back and forth under her aroused, exposed clitoris.

            She could tell that it was all having the same effect on him. His breathing became more rapid and explosive. His hands moved quickly to pull the top of the tedisette down over her breasts, exposing them to his ravenous mouth, tongue, and teeth. He moved his hips more and more frantically under her, trying to thrust himself inside her. In just a few minutes she bucked and shivered, cumming hard. Using her cries of pleasure as his cue, the sounds swelling him even more, he grabbed her buttocks, spread them apart, and lifted her off him.

            She reached down and held him with one hand, the other lifting a breast to her mouth so she could lick her own nipple, as he lowered her down, impaling her with his length. Their coupling did not last long. She leaned forward again and thrust her tongue into his mouth as he kept hold of her buttocks and moved them up and down over his erection. Neither could long stand the sensations of him rapidly sliding in and out of her sex like that, and soon they came, she biting his shoulder to stifle her cries, and he shooting long and deep inside her.                   

            They lay together, gradually recovering their breaths and lowering their heart rates, for almost two hours. Neither said a word as they basked in the afterglow. Finally, Sarelle sat up, flexing her inner muscles to bring Talon out of his half-doze.  A self-satisfied smirk played over her face as he opened his eyes.

            “There now,” she practically purred, “wasn’t that fun?”        

              Talon smiled lazily and nodded.

            “Now do you really want to lose that just so you can play with guns for some nebulous cause?”

            The smile on his face vanished instantly and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

            “Excuse me?” he asked in an ominous tone of voice

            “Do you really want to miss all of this,” she rose from the tub and languorously caressed herself, “so you can go out there and get yourself killed to ‘make the world a better place’?”

            Talon exploded out of the tub, his face contorted with fury. He grabbed his shorts and put them on, tucking the Llama M-87 into the waistband, and then picked up his laptop.

            “I do not believe you! You just had sex with me to try to convince me not to do something I very strongly believe in? What kind of fucking manipulative bullshit is that?” The volume of his voice was such that the crying of their daughter, Taija, could now be heard throughout the house, frightened from her sleep. Sarelle could only recoil in shock at his rage and stare, unable to speak.

            “In all the time we’ve been together,” he went on, visibly trying to control his anger, “you have never been deceptive, at least not to the best of my knowledge, and now you pull this? In all the time we’ve been together, we’ve always made love. We’ve never slept together, had sex, or gotten laid. Do you know what we did tonight?  We fucked! That’s right, we fucked, and it makes me sick. I want you to get dressed, pack your shit, and get out of my house.”

            “Your house?” Now her anger rose as a defense against his. “You’re not the only one who works around here.”

            “Yeah, but I’m the only one who pays any of the bills. Where does your money go, huh? To pay for your car, your credit cards, your shit. Who pays for all the real bills? I pay the mortgage, the phone bill, the power, our joint credit cards; I put money in our joint bank accounts. Check the records, babe. It’s all in my name, because I pay for everything.”

            The reality of his words came crashing down on her, and she could only stand in silence, tears starting to brim in her eyes. Talon continued to bore in relentlessly.

            “Pack your shit, call your mother and tell her you’re coming over for an extended visit without me, and then get the fuck out.” He started to turn away from her, and then paused, remembering something. “Take Taija with you. I’m going to be busy, and I’ll grant you that my work is dangerous. She’ll be safer with you, and you’ll be able to take better care of her than I will.” Sarelle still just stood there in shock. “Get cracking, babe. I want you gone.”

Chapter One

May 11, 2012

 Miami, Florida

             A black rain washed over Miami, soaking the city in a steady, unrelenting downpour. On a normal late spring day, the noontime sun would have sent the mercury into the nineties and turned the glass and steel of the high-rises into glaring mirrors. Instead, the rain, wind, and the solid slate-gray thunderclouds combined to make for a thoroughly miserable afternoon. The only light being reflected by the skyscrapers was the occasional flash of lightning, and the only real heat to be found was inside those buildings or inside the few cars on the lunch-hour run.

            Just a few blocks away from Southwest 7th Avenue’s bridge over the Miami River stands the Walton Tower, a late-eighties vintage skyscraper featuring glass walls and innovative, modernistic architecture. Had the building enjoyed the kind of business its designer had envisioned, it would have been one of the most beautiful structures in downtown Miami. Unfortunately, with the current economy making the recessions of the Bush presidencies look like the Roaring Twenties, Walton Tower was largely neglected. Only a dozen or so companies took up residence in a skyscraper designed to hold hundreds. The main lobby was practically deserted and two-thirds of the buildings elevator’s did not operate.

            On the northeast face of “the Tower” (so dubbed by its tenants), sandwiched between two walls of glass, was a fifteen story atrium that originally housed a patio cafe surrounded by decorative tropical trees. The trees and surrounding bush had gone feral long ago, turning a scenic luncheon spot into almost triple-canopy jungle. Hacked out of the center of that nearly impenetrable tangle, reachable only by a carefully concealed path known to a select few, was a small clearing that was invisible from the outside. In the middle of the clearing, constructed of black marble, stood a small replica of “the Clock,” the monument in Hereford, England, that lists all the members of the elite Special Air Service who had been killed in action.

            Talon Savage (his first name given to him by his Seminole mother and translated into English for the sake of his friends) stood alone at the miniature shrine, oblivious to the wind-blown rain slapping viciously at the exterior glass. The short walk from the parking garage to the atrium had left his long brown hair soaked, the water streaming down his black leather longcoat to puddle around his snakeskin boots. Squinting through the fog created by the sudden change in temperature on his Persol sunglasses, Savage gazed intensely at the five names carved into the the clock less than two weeks ago. The names of his co-workers, his teammates, his friends. Five more dead “Jedi”.

  ***************

             Jarrett “Scratch” Dotson stared down from the plate glass window in the fifteenth story conference room at the jungle-like atrium below, unable to see Savage, but knowing he was there. The half-Seminole had responded to Dotson’s call as he knew he would, and his secretary had said that the grieving man had arrived just minutes ago. Dotson could empathize with Savage, having experienced the loss of comrades-in-arms in the hell of Vietnam. He felt responsible for the loss of the rest of Savage’s team, having assigned them to the mission on which they were killed.

            Dotson struck an imposing figure as he patiently waited, lost in his own reveries and sorrow. At six foot and two hundred pounds with almost no fat, he was in better shape than a lot of men a third his age. With a fierce determination that drove him to succeed at everything he did (except billiards, hence his nickname), the sixty-two year old man had rigidly maintained the physical regimen he had undergone to become a member of  SEAL Team Two, the Phoenix Program, and SEAL Team Six, and it showed. The dapper, gray pinstriped, double-breasted suit from John Phillips of London was custom tailored and emphasized a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested physique.      

As powerful as his body was, his mind was equally agile, something the casual observer would not expect after a quick glance at him and his military service record.  “Another musclehead snake-eater,” they would say. They could not be further from the truth. As physically grueling as the selection courses Dotson had gone through were (and they were brutal; it’s not called Hell Week for nothing), they were just as emotionally exhausting and mentally strenuous. To be able to think on your feet, under fire, with people dying around you, was just as important, if not more so, as being accurate with your weapon or to hump that hundred pound rucksack on your back for twenty miles through rough terrain.

            When Vietnam was over, and the pain was as forgotten and healed as it ever would be, he had become a “plank owner” in SEAL Team Six, one of its original members. He became just as deadly to international terrorists as he had been to Charlie, and he had not been a happy man when a bullshit medical disability (a minor sight imperfection) had forcibly retired him from the Teams. His disappointment grew as he watched most of the “plank owners” from Six undergo ridiculous legal charges as the Navy brass methodically brought the rogue unit under its heel. No longer lean and aggressive, it had become cumbersome and slow, a force of teachers and tools (now known as Naval Special Warfare Development Group, or NAVSPECWARDEVGRP), not hunters and killers.

            And so an idea was born in Jarrett Dotson’s mind, an idea that could bring him considerable wealth and pay tribute to the men who really knew how to fight a war, who knew what the term “unit integrity” meant. He started his own business in the late 1980’s, a private security firm specializing in consulting, investigation, and personal protection. At first the firm was no different from any of the other dozens of companies who provided similar services, but that rapidly changed. His reputation gave him many clients in the world of politics, economics, and the military, and his name soon became worldwide. His shrewd business mind was instrumental in the reinvesting of the company’s profits and the few small takeovers of other firms he had engineered. It did not take long for his business to become incorporated and develop into what he had always foreseen – the “Jedi.”

            The firm was officially known as Joint Security Operations Corporation – J.S.O.C., a tribute to the organization Dotson had spent much of his career in while with the Navy. J.S.O.C., or “jaysock”, as it was more commonly called, also stood for the Joint Special Operations Command, the unit that commanded SEAL Team Six, along with Delta Force, the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (aka Task Force 160, or the “Nightstalkers”), and highly classified elements of the Air Force’s special operations squadrons and the CIA’s paramilitary forces. Unofficially, the company was known as Jedi Security Operations Corporation. “The Jedi” was a nickname given to Six during its formative years by envious commanders from other units because it was taking their best men.

            Within five years JSOC was the biggest, most accomplished, and unique security firm in the world. While it still did individual personal protection, missing persons investigations, and private consulting, it now also fielded highly-trained operators for hostage rescue missions, counternarcotics ops, snatch raids and contract assassinations (though the latter two were understandably little publicized). No longer did it hire out to just the private citizen, it now had contracts with city, state, and federal governments from all over the globe, along with international businesses (many of which were now just as powerful as some countries) and the ultra-wealthy. Its size had grown from dozens in the United States to hundreds with international capabilities.

            Originally the personnel who made up the Operations Bureau of the company had all been in either the military or in law enforcement and had therefore not needed much training to be adequately prepared for the work they did. Eventually, however, Dotson had realized that the scope of the company’s work and clientele, along with the rapid advance of high technology in everyday life, would require personnel with more than just military skills. And so a training program had been born, loosely based on the eight-week long selection process used by the U.S. Army’s Rangers. After prospective employees met that challenge, they then underwent specialization courses that covered a wide array of seemingly arcane fields. When they were finally assigned to teams (or “cells”, as they were called in Jedi terminology), rookie operatives were not only proficient in combat, but they were also competent in such diverse areas as computers, piloting, Emergency Medical Training, covert entry techniques,  high speed driving, and dozens of other subjects.      

The operators were not the only employees of JSOC, though they certainly were the most famous. A Legal Bureau handled the operatives’ inevitable confrontations with the law, both in America and abroad.  A Logistics Bureau made sure that the cells were always well-supplied and suitably armed. Though the equipment and weaponry was often exotic, cells were rarely without critical tools of the trade. A Transportation Bureau, outfitted with planes, helicopters, boats, automobiles and other, more eccentric modes of transport, virtually guaranteed that cells could reach anywhere in the world within twenty-four hours. Finally, an Analysis Bureau allowed operators to pursue investigative assignments with the aid of forensic and ballistic test results. Dozens of scientists, some recruited almost immediately after receiving their degrees, were provided with criminal analysis labs that rivaled the best police departments in the world.

            Jarrett Dotson had invested a great deal of money in his company. The weaponry, vehicles, laboratories, and equipment for this kind of work were both expensive and comparatively rare. Training operatives was also costly, and not all those who volunteered completed the course, resulting in thousands of wasted dollars. The overhead for even such mundane items as stationery and general maintenance was staggering at first sight. But the Jedi had paid for themselves many times over since their birth, and the company was easily one of the most profitable in the world, the stock being one of the most eagerly sought after shares on Wall Street. In the end, however, Dotson knew that the success of his business lay squarely on the shoulders of the operatives. Indeed, he had intended it that way, with every other asset of the company existing only to support the Operations Bureau.

            The operators were now more sought after to solve problems than mercenaries, police, or even national militaries. From shutting down cocaine processing labs in Peru to tracking down missing nuclear warheads in Siberia, the Jedi were there. They stopped the Dominican Republic from smuggling oil over the border to Haiti and rescued passengers aboard a hijacked airliner by storming the plane in Qatar. The Jedi attacked the Mafia in Sicily and the posses in Jamaica. The United Nations hired them for covert missions in Somalia, Rwanda, and the Balkans. Within the United States alone, they were often called in to back up metropolitan and federal police forces and SWAT teams for particularly volatile situations such as hostage rescues or crackhouse raids.

            Many of their exploits never became public knowledge, as several of their contracts had required them to perform much more shadowy missions. They had assassinated drug barons and kidnapped terrorist leaders. Rebels in a score of different countries had received their smuggled weapons and supplies from JSOC operatives. Countless corporate executives from Japan to Switzerland to the Caribbean had had their computer networks hacked by Jedi “geeks”.

            The job of an operator was not without its risks, however. Injury, and even death, was an occupational hazard and the destruction of a romantic or family life only marginally less so. Although Dotson had never discriminated between male or female, heterosexual or homosexual, or for any other reason, the vast majority of his employees were young, single, and without children. They also rarely stayed with the company for more than five years. They were well compensated for the risks they took, however. Life and personal injury insurance coverage were utterly total if the direct result of a mission. All operatives were paid a generous base salary plus a percentage of the fee paid by a client for each individual assignment. Promotions were given on the basis of the number of successfully completed contracts. The result was that the Jedi appeared to the general public as being fairly wealthy, and most of them, in fact, were, living in nice private homes, driving flashy cars, and almost constantly being in the news.

             Yes, Jarrett Dotson was very proud of his Jedi, and of himself. He had turned a dream into a very lucrative reality, and in the process he had done the memory of his brothers in arms proud. He had even managed to do more than his part to stem the tide of filth and depravity sweeping across the world. But now JSOC faced its biggest and most dangerous challenge ever. While death and severe injury were always a possibility on assignments, and JSOC had many determined competitors and enemies, it had never before dealt with a campaign apparently designed with the total and utter destruction of the company as its one solitary goal. Not until now.

  ***************

             “Ah, excuse me, sir?” The polite but firm voice of Randall Minehart, JSOC’s Vice President, brought Dotson out of his reverie. “Shouldn’t we send someone down to bring Mr. Savage along?  I realize the deaths of his teammates have understandably upset him, but he has had five weeks to grieve.  I really think we should get this meeting started. Some of us have other duties to attend to in order to keep your company running.”

            Dotson cast one last look at the jungle far below, then turned and regarded Minehart with a long, steady gaze. He knew his second in command did not approve of the reason behind this meeting, and suspected that the man merely wanted to get this “idiocy”, as he had repeatedly called it, over and done with as soon as possible. He did, however, have a point, regardless of his reasons. Dotson nodded, and Mel Sykes, the Senior Cell Leader for all the cells based out of Miami, rose to his feet.

            “I’ll send Lynn down, sir,” Sykes drawled in his thick Australian outback accent, referring to Evelyn Waters, a member of  his own cell and a friend of Savage’s. “She’s right outside, shooting the breeze with Willie, pulling security detail for a couple of hours.” The tall, blonde Aussie left, spoke with Waters, then returned and sat down. Wilhemina Graf, more commonly and lovingly called “Willie”, was Dotson’s personal secretary. The security detail Sykes had mentioned was common practice for cells not currently assigned to a mission.

            Security in the offices of JSOC all over the world was heavy to say the least, and for obvious reasons. Windows were bullet-resistant, doors and walls were blast-proof, and all employees, whether they were operatives or not, were armed. The offices were always many floors up in high-rise buildings, and always had spacious lobbies between them and the elevators and stairs, with security cameras covering every inch from several different angles. The offices themselves were compartmented, with such areas as the labs and armories reinforced with blast-proof doors and walls. The off-duty cells added significantly to the physical security.

            In the age of high-tech the security was not just physical. The phone lines and satellite communications were encrypted with multiple layers of codes, making tapping the lines not only next to impossible, but also pointless as well, as the only things that would be heard were electronic screeches, squawks, and whistles. The computers were also heavily protected with many levels of passwords and codes. The most vital of the company’s information was stored in computers that were off-line, not accessible via the internet, which led potential infiltrators back to having to deal with JSOC’s physical security again.

            Dotson’s lips compressed into a concerned grimace. All the physical and technological security in the world wasn’t going to mean anything if they didn’t solve the crisis facing them now.

 ***************

          A faint rustling startled Talon Savage out of his memories and his grief. The only people who were supposed to know of the existence of this clearing were the operatives and the VIPs of JSOC, but Savage never made assumptions. He drew his Llama M-87 9mm automatic pistol from its shoulder holster and melted into the dense foliage surrounding the miniature shrine. He kept his senses focused on the direction from which the sounds were coming, waiting for a clear target, as he slowly and silently closed the distance on the unknown intruder.

            Seconds later a figure appeared, and Savage pounced. Pistol extended before him in a two-handed grip, he exploded out of the brush, kicking her knees out from under her and jamming the M-87’s muzzle into her temple. Only after grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling the head back to reveal her face did Savage realize he had just ambushed Evelyn Waters.

            Waters attempted a smile through the grimace of pain as Savage let her go and holstered his pistol.

            “You sure do know how to treat a lady, Talon,” she quipped. She ran a hand through her hair and winced, then put an artfully tragic expression on her face and affected a dumb-blonde accent. “And you know it took me hours to get my curls just right!”

            “Jesus Christ, chère,” Savage exclaimed, his accent and vocabulary revealing his Cajun ancestry from his father’s side. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

            Waters shrugged as she got up and dusted herself off.

            “Nice to see you haven’t lost your touch after all this time,” she observed.

            Savage gave a noncommittal grunt as he holstered his pistol.

            “C’mon, Bayou Boy,” she instructed, using her favorite nickname for the tall, lean man she was considerably attracted to. “The powers that be want your tight little butt upstairs for the big pow-wow.”

            “Now you know my wife doesn’t like you making comments about my anatomy, petit.” Savage actually managed a small smile. “I am a happily married man, after all.”

            Waters returned the smile as she linked her arm with Savage’s and escorted him to the nearest elevator that still worked.

            “I can always dream, Talon. I can always dream.”

 ***************

             Heads turned in the fifteenth story office when Savage entered the room, each party sizing the other up as all invited personnel were now accounted for. Savage recognized Dotson, Minehart, and Sykes immediately. It took him only a few moments longer to identify the Heads of each Bureau and the Chiefs of each Division. JSOC divided its missions into theaters of operations called Divisions. Each Division was responsible for all contracts executed within its boundaries and was headed by a single Chief.

            The North American Division handled all assignments in Canada and the United States. The Latin American Division covered Central and South America and cooperated with the North American Division on missions in the Caribbean. The Far Eastern Division was responsible for China, Japan, Southeast Asia, the South Pacific (Australia, New Zealand, the Solomon Islands, etc.) and assisted North America with missions in Hawaii. The European Division covered all of Europe from Portugal to the Ukraine. The Asian Division handled the rest of the Russian Republics and the Indian subcontinent. The Middle Eastern Division was responsible for the Arab states, Israel, Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco. The African Division covered the rest of the African continent. Any remaining areas of the globe left uncovered (such as Antarctica) were usually dealt with by multiple Divisions.

            Savage could not identify the remaining five individuals in the room as he shook hands with Sykes, pointedly ignored Minehart (whom he detested with a passion), and made his way towards Dotson. An older, mustached man, a downy-faced kid, a stunning, tan, brunette woman, a black man, and a non-descript Caucasian wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He had never seen any of them before in his life, and that made him slightly nervous, although it didn’t show.

“How you doing, Gumbo?” Dotson asked as he gave the younger man a firm handshake and a heartfelt embrace.

            “A little better each day, Scratch,” Savage replied. “You figure out how to drop the eight-ball and leave the cue on the table yet?” Dotson just chuckled and shook his head. Savage’s eyes settled on Dotson’s well-stocked refrigerator. “May I?” he asked, pointing to it.

            “Help yourself,” Dotson replied. Savage nodded his thanks and removed an ice-cold bottle of Bud Light, popping the top and taking a long swallow.

            “Isn’t it a little early for that?” The brunette’s question was thickly laced with contempt and disgust. She held a bottle of Snapple in her hand.

            Savage made a show of checking his diver’s watch. “It’s past noon.” He chugged down the rest of the beer and grabbed a second.

            “I suppose you’d say that no matter what time it was.”

            “Hey, it’s always past noon somewhere in the world.”

            Mel Sykes stepped in to deflate the situation. “Talon Savage, meet Ashlyn Falconieri. Ashlyn, Talon Savage.” Savage raised his bottle in greeting. Falconieri flashed a sarcastic grin in reply.

            “Thank you, Mel,” Dotson interrupted. “I’ll handle the remaining introductions. Talon, you arrived a little late, everybody else has already met each other. I’m sure you recognize all the Bureau Heads and Division Chiefs. This is Nigel Lassiter, Roman Lyons, Denzel Coryatt, and Greg Miller.” Dotson pointed out the mustached man, the kid, the black man, and the bespectacled one respectively as he named them. They each nodded in greeting and Savage responded in kind. “If the majority of the parties in this room agree to the proposal I’m about to present to you all, the six operatives in this room will be getting each other’s personal files to further your knowledge of one another. Now, if there are any objections..?”

            “Just get on with it,” Minehart muttered under his breath, clearly disgusted with the very idea behind the meeting before it had even gotten under way. Dotson heard him and shot him a piercing glance that instantly silenced the company’s VP. The remainder of the room quietly found their seats.

            “As I’m sure you’re all aware of, there has been increasing conflict between our company and the International Jihad for Islam terrorist organization. For the past eleven months, starting with the June 4th raid in Casablanca at the request of the Moroccan government, these terrorists have been directly responsible for the deaths of thirty-nine operatives and injuring sixteen more. We have replied with both sanctioned and paid for contracts and independent actions of employees. These reprisals have accounted for sixty-three Jihad members dead and approximately at least one hundred injured.”

            “I and the other VIP’s in this room have carefully reviewed the case files in all the Jihad-caused deaths and injuries of our operators,” Dotson continued, “and we believe…”

            “Most of you believe,” Minehart emphasized, clearly stating that he was one of the minority. Dotson again stared the younger man into silence. He did not say a word to his 2IC (second in command), but it was readily apparent to everyone in the room that Dotson was becoming extremely agitated with his subordinate’s contradictory attitude.

            “We believe,” Dotson carried on, this time unimpeded by Minehart, “that we have found some disturbing patterns. Number one: a disproportionate number of the operatives targeted by the IJI have been rookies, some who hadn’t even received their first assignment. Two: in the past, the Jihad has always taken great pride in being responsible for acts of terrorism. They have always contacted the world media and claimed responsibility and further explained the reasons behind their actions. They have not done so in any single attack against this company. It appears they want to keep this little war very private. Finally, three: politics or religion does not appear to be motivators in any of these incidents. There was either no political or religious action against them to retaliate to at the times of any of these attacks, or if there was, they retaliated in another manner that they publicly took full responsibility for.”

             “Given these patterns, we believe that the IJI has declared war on this company, that they want nothing less than the complete destruction of this company, and that they have a comprehensive, strategic plan designed to do just that. The single-mindedness of these attacks, from the assassination of Andreas Strasser and Maria Genovese in Singapore to the ambush of Morgan Winthrop’s Excalibur Cell in Paris supports this theory. So does the high percentage of rookies killed in these murders. We believe that they are trying to destroy us by eradicating the next generation of operatives and thereby eliminating our future. Once they have accomplished that, we believe their next step will be to target our leadership, our command and control elements. The deaths of many rookies, as unfortunate as they may be, might not topple this company, but my death and the death of several of our CEO’s would.”

            “And so you’ve gathered us here to..?” Nigel Lassiter asked in his clipped British accent, sweeping his arm in an arc to include the other operators in the room.

            “Those of us who support this theory,” replied Dotson with a meaningful glance at Minehart, “want to form a cell with the sole explicit purpose of eliminating the IJI.” The ex-SEAL paused to let the significance of that statement sink in. He was rewarded with sharp gasps of surprise and raised eyebrows. “The cell’s mission will be worldwide in scope and will have the complete cooperation of all the Bureaus and Divisions. Your missions will always take precedence over any and all other cells unless those cells are in immediate danger of being annihilated.”

            “How will the missions be assigned?” Denzel Coryatt inquired. “I mean, who will we hit, how, and when?”

            “That is entirely up to you.” Dotson answered. “I am giving you free reign. Use your own individual networks and contacts, take full advantage of all the Bureaus’ databases to gather intelligence and hit those targets you deem most important to the Jihad in any manner you see fit. You can commandeer any off-duty cells you may need to reinforce your numbers, and the full capabilities of the Logistics and Transportation Bureau will be at your immediate disposal. You will have the company’s total sanction and support. I don’t care how you take these bastards down; assassination, ambush, hit-and-run, demolition, I don’t care. Just take them out and do it permanently!”

            “And how are we going to be paid?” Savage asked. Dotson immediately raised his eyebrows in question. “What I mean is, we normally get a cut of the client’s fee for each assignment in addition to our base salary. Well, there is no client, and therefore no client’s fee.” The rangy Cajun/Seminole gave a small, humorless smile. “What do you want us to fight for, Jarrett? What is the price of our blood?”

            “I don’t think you should be paid at all!” Minehart burst out, finally unable to contain himself any longer. “I think this whole idea is ludicrous. The Jihad is reacting just like any other terrorist organization would. We hit one of their safehouses, they retaliated. We couldn’t accept that as an occupational hazard and got involved in this childish little tête-à-tête. Has it ever occurred to you that rookies were targeted because they would be easier victims than experienced operatives? And as you yourself just pointed out, Jarrett, we have not been the only target of the Jihad. Their operations against their normal enemies have continued.”

            Dotson shook his head emphatically. “The rookies should be harder to target, Randall, because they should be unknown entities. They haven’t been involved in any serious missions and haven’t developed any kind of reputation within the counterterrorist community. And yes, the Jihad has continued its operations against Israel and her allies, but at a noticeably slower pace, and with less successful results than in the past.”

             “As for pay,” Dotson went on, turning to Savage, “each of you will be issued an American Express Platinum Card. The card will be in your name, but the money will be coming out of the company’s funds. Just don’t give the press or the government any reason to investigate us like they did the original J.S.O.C., ok?” He was referring to the investigations of 1981-86 in which members of Delta Force, SEAL Team Six, and the Army’s Intelligence Support Activity (ISA) were found guilty of several extravagant financial activities, including front dummy corporations, double-billing transportation and room and board expenses (which were often first class) and purchasing such exotic items as Rolls-Royces and a hot-air balloon.

            “Relax, Jarrett,” Lassiter assured his boss. “We’ll only spend what is necessary to do the job and keep ourselves reasonably comfortable.”

            “Speak for yourself, dude,” Roman Lyons spoke up. “Those cards don’t have a limit, you know.” Lassiter gave the youth a look that clearly said he had a limit, however.

            “I can assume, sir,” the Englishman moved on, “that the cards will be canceled when this long-term assignment is over?” Dotson nodded, but Minehart jumped in again, his face flushed with indignation.

            “You’re assuming the assignment will end. Who’s to say it will? This organization has been around for years and has hundreds, possibly even thousands of members, all of them fanatics. They won’t fold just because you kill some of their brethren and blow up a few of their headquarters. You’ll start an unending war!”

            “They are more like an actual army than any terrorist outfit before them. They are professionals, and they rely far more on training and tactics than fanaticism,” Dotson retorted. “Their zeal is intense, granted, but considerably less so than their predecessors. They have a military chain of command system drilled into their heads during training and that makes them vulnerable. We think we can cripple their ability to fight by destroying their command infrastructure. With no leaders to tell it what to do, an army won’t do anything. After crippling their leadership, we can then move on to lesser targets. It worked in Vietnam with the Phoenix Project.” This time he was talking about the CIA-organized and run unit that attacked the NVA command structure and the VC political cadre. It was one of the few American operations of the war that the Vietnamese had admitted they were afraid of, that had actually had any effect on them. “It also worked, and continues to work, for the Israelis with their Kidon hit teams.”

            “I still say this is lunacy,” Minehart insisted. “It is a waste of time, money, and, most importantly, lives. When the IJI realizes that this is a concerted effort, not just some random unsanctioned reprisals, then they will respond with the kind of action you think they have already undertaken. This…”

            “Enough, Randall, enough!” Dotson barked in frustration, his patience finally broken. “Your views and the views of some of the Bureau Heads and Division Chiefs have been well documented and duly noted. But the VIPs have already taken their vote and you are in the minority. Whether or not this assignment proceeds is now up to the operatives in this room. Now they have to decide.” He turned to the half-dozen operators in the room. “Gentlemen? Ms. Falconieri? What do you say?”

            “I accept.” Nigel Lassiter’s reply was immediate and firm.

            “So do I.” Ashlyn Falconieri’s voice was calm and even as she agreed with the Briton.

            “Fuckin’ A!” Roman Lyons’ enthusiastic answer was greeted with rolled eyes and shaken heads from the rest of the room.

            Dotson’s questioning gaze was met with determined nods from Denzel Coryatt and Greg Miller. The President and owner of JSOC turned his attention to Talon Savage, who had been staring down into the atrium, silent since he had asked his question about the method of payment.

            “Talon? What about you?” The Cajun didn’t answer immediately, his attention still focused on the indoor jungle below and the memorial concealed within.  After several seconds of silence, however, he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned to face his boss.

            “I’m in.”

Prologue

 June 4, 2011

 Casablanca, Morocco

            Thunder and lightning shattered the warm, peaceful North African night in a torrent of fire and flying glass. A trio of rapid explosions ripped through the small waterfront house in the Moroccan suburb of Ain Diab. With blinding speed, three pairs of black-clad figures rushed through the doors and windows blown open by the detonations. The dozen or so inhabitants of the house, stunned by the sudden assault, were virtually helpless as their attackers rolled over them in a wave of violence. Only two of the defenders were able to get to their guns, and they were instantly riddled with automatic weapons’ fire. In less than a minute the one-sided carnage was over, and the half-dozen assailants disappeared as suddenly as they had arrived.

            They had moved with shocking speed and devastating precision. Dressed in skintight black UnderArmour garments, equipped with the latest night-vision goggles and armed with high tech military small arms, they had passed through the house like lethal wraiths.  Czechoslovakian Semtex plastic explosive had been their method of entry, and Glock pistols, H&K submachine guns, and USAS-12 fully automatic shotguns had been their firearms of choice, the laser sights on the weapons scything through the darkness like death rays on some futuristic starship. They left behind fourteen (including the two sentries that had been quickly, silently dispatched with foot-long combat knives) dead members of the IJI, the International Jihad for Islam, and a burning, ravaged safehouse.

            The “Jedi” had struck again.

 

 July 9, 2011

 Singapore

             Caught once again in the southwest monsoon season, the Malaysian metropolis of Singapore endured yet another smothering downpour. With temperatures in the low nineties, the rain served not to cool the unfortunate dwellers of the city, but rather to increase the uncomfortable, clammy feeling of sweaty skin against wet clothing.

            Trying desperately to find anything to take their minds off the weather and what an absolute disaster their vacation had turned out to be, Andreas Strasser and Maria Genovese wandered the botanical wonders of the Mandai Orchid Gardens. The overabundant wealth of tropical foliage almost resembled triple canopy jungle, and gave the two teammates, who were fast becoming much more than just working partners, a refreshing degree of privacy.

            Finding a relatively dry spot under a stand of dripping palm trees, Strasser pulled Genovese to him and began whispering into her ear as he gently traced the outline of her aroused nipples through the thin fabric of her blouse. Completely immersed in their long-awaited moment of secluded bliss, neither of them had noticed the pair of bearded, dark-skinned men discreetly following them.

            Each man removed a pair of MU-50 mini-grenades from the pockets of their lightweight leisure suits and tossed them in the direction of the amorous couple. They ducked around a corner just in time to avoid a hail of shrapnel as the quartet of grenades shredded the hapless lovers. Moving quickly after the explosions had stopped, the two assassins added insult to injury by shooting each mangled corpse twice in the head and twice in the chest with automatic pistols.

            The IJI had returned fire.

 

 January 3, 2012

 Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

             Ahmet Hakeem lay basking in the sweltering sun in a gaudy pair of Bermuda shorts, enjoying the very enticing view of gorgeous Brazilian native women sunbathing with their European and American tourist counterparts. One of the top officers in the International Jihad for Islam, Hakeem found the infamous dental floss-thin bikinis, more often than not worn topless, to be a great improvement over the traditional garb worn by the women in his homeland of Oman. Gingerly rubbing the sunburned bald spot on his head, the portly terrorist leader sipped from a strawberry daiquiri and immersed himself in the joys of Copacabana beach, secure in the knowledge that he had five bodyguards within spitting distance. Surrounded by the quintet of lightly dressed yet heavily armed men, he assumed he was safe from any reprisals for the horrific tragedies he had both planned and participated in over the years.

            Well over one thousand yards away, on the elegant, three-masted, top-sailed schooner Victoria, Alan Seagal, Erik Vandenberg, and Amanda Connors set about proving just how wrong Hakeem was in his assumptions. All three removed huge semiautomatic sniper rifles from hardshell cases and assumed firing positions at various places on the luxury yacht’s spacious deck. Seagal peered through a high-powered spotting scope integrated with a laser rangefinder and read the digital display on the bottom of the lens when the invisible laser beam found Hakeem’s head.

            “One-thousand and four-hundred-twenty-seven meters,” was all he said to his companions, who simply nodded and made adjustments to the scopes mounted on their rifles. Seagal also made the necessary corrections and then centered the crosshairs of his scope on the terrorist leader’s skull, just above and behind his ear. Vandenberg and Connors each chose separate targets and waited for their “Boss”, as they affectionately and respectfully called him, to open fire first.

            The conditions were nearly perfect for long-distance sniping. There was little, if any, crosswind or humidity, and the six-foot swells that rocked the Victoria were slow and gentle. The trio’s rifles, a Steyr AMR and a pair of Barrett M-82’s, were designed to disable material such as lightly armored vehicles at this distance. The Austrian-made Steyr fired a unique 15mm fin-stabilized tungsten flechette, and the American Barretts were chambered in the big, venerable .50 caliber BMG cartridge.

            Seagal took deep, slow breaths and timed the rise and fall of the swells before he put his eye to the scope and began to apply steady pressure to the trigger. The AMR roared, almost instantly followed by two rapid barks from the M-82’s. All three snipers quickly acquired new targets and dispatched the last three of Ahmet Hakeem’s bodyguards. Such was the distance from the shooters to the targets that all six men were dead before the sound from the first shot reached the shore. Even then, the closely-spaced reports were mistaken for fireworks in a city famous for its parties and carnivals.  

            The luxurious schooner’s crew was already putting her underway before the rifles were even back in their cases. As the three snipers stowed their gear belowdecks, they left behind a half-dozen nearly decapitated cadavers, all six killed with expertly placed head shots. Hakeem’s insistence on being placed where he could observe as much of the beach as possible and still maintain a degree of privacy had paid unexpected dividends. Innocent bystanders becoming casualties had not been a problem, as had been previously feared.

            The stakes had been raised.

 

 March 21, 2012

 Paris, France

             Hands wrapped in supple leather driving gloves, Morgan Winthrop hummed contentedly along to the strains of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Cats” playing over the Alpine stereo in his Aston Martin Virage. The distinguished, sparkling silver automobile was one of Winthrop’s few true passions in life, and he had often stated that he loved the car more than he ever had any woman. From the authentic burled walnut dashboard and genuine suede of the interior roof and door pillars to the Wilton carpets and Connolly leather seats and console, Winthrop fawned over every minute detail.

            The circumstances under which he was driving on this day made the pleasure that much more enjoyable. The weather was perfect, with not a single cloud to mar the sky, and the breeze created by the car’s passing warm and gentle. Three of the people he loved most in the world, Tony Volpe, Alex Carter, and Theresa Mayne, people with whom he had fought and almost died with on many occasions, rode with him and entertained each other with animated conversation.

            They cruised smoothly down the Champs-Elysees, turned onto the Ave Foch, and headed towards the Russian Embassy and the Bois de Boulogne (the Boulogne Woods), intent on doing nothing but winding down and enjoying themselves after weeks of harrowing contract assignments. As they passed the Embassy and turned left, heading south with the woods on their right flank, all failed to notice a pair of well-concealed, prone figures just inside the tree line.

            One man tracked the car with a laser rangefinder and read off the distance to his partner. Just as Morgan Winthrop’s precious Aston Martin Virage began to accelerate out of its turn, the second man opened fire with a British-made LAW-80, a man-portable anti-tank rocket launcher. The 94mm warhead, designed to penetrate the latest main battle tank armor, covered the distance in the blink of an eye and sliced through the automobile like a samurai blade through flesh. It detonated just as it was passing through the far side of the car, tearing it open with an ear-piercing shriek of tortured metal and a deafening explosion. The four teammates inside never had a chance.

            The war was on.