His secure phone was in his desk drawer. He pulled it out, hit the required numbers, and waited.

Four rings and a pickup. Kent winced when he realized it was the person and not a recording. He had been hoping for a bit of a reprieve.

He reported the latest news in terse, information-packed sentences, just as he had been trained to do.

And then he waited.

He could hear the other person breathing lightly on the other end of a communication line that not even the NSA could crack.

Kent did not break the silence. It wasn’t his place.

He just let the man breathe, take it in, think. The response would be forthcoming, he was certain of that.

“Has a search been made?” asked the person. “If they’re believed dead, there have to be bodies. That will be the only confirmation. Otherwise, they’re alive.”

“Agreed,” said Kent, who let out a nearly inaudible sigh of relief. “I personally don’t think they’re dead.”

“But injured?”

“After that sort of a jump, most likely yes.”

“Then we have to find them. Shouldn’t be too difficult if they are hurt.”

“Yes.”

“Cleanup on the train?”

“The train was stopped. Everything has been removed. All witnesses have been dealt with.”

“Explanation?”

“We can place the blame on whomever we want.”

“Well, I would place it on two rogue agents who have obviously lost their way. That will be the official line.”

“Understood.”

“It’s still an enormous mess. And one that should have been avoided.”

“I agree.”

“I didn’t ask for your agreement.”

“No, of course not.”

“But we’re near the end.”

“Yes,” said Kent.

“So don’t create any more obstacles.”

“Understood.”

“Robie and Reel together. A cause for concern.”

Kent didn’t know if the person was asking a question or stating a fact.

“I would not underestimate either of them,” said Kent.

“I never underestimate anyone, least of all my allies.”

Kent licked his lips, considered this statement. He was an ally. And this person would not underestimate him. “We’ll make a major push.”

“Yes, you will.”

The line went dead.

Kent put the phone away and looked up when the door to his study opened. For one panicked moment he thought his time had come and the open door would reveal a person like Robie or Reel dispatched to give him his final punishment.

But it was simply his wife. She was in her nightgown.

Kent’s gaze flicked to the wall above the door where the clock showed it was nearly eight in the morning.

“Did you even go to bed?” she asked. Her hair was tousled, her face bare of makeup, her eyes still weighted with sleep. But to Kent she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

He was lucky. He had never deserved a life of simple domesticity. But that was only half his life. His other half was decidedly different. Equal parts perfume and gunpowder. But right now, all gunpowder.

“Grabbed a few hours in the guest room. Didn’t want to disturb you, honey,” he said. “I finished up work late.”

She went to him, perched on the side of his desk, ran her fingers through his hair.

Their kids looked more like their mother. That was good, thought Kent. He wanted them to be like her. Not him.

Not me. Not my life.

He wanted his children to have exceptional lives. But also ordinary ones. Safe ones. Ones that did not involve carrying weapons or shooting others while being shot at. That was no life. Just a way to an early death.

“You look tired,” said his wife.

“A little. Burning the candles at both ends lately. Things will even out.”

“I’ll go make you some coffee.”

“Thanks, sweetie. That would be great.”

She kissed him on the forehead and left.

Kent watched her go every step of the way.

He had a lot.

Which meant he had a lot to lose.

He looked around his study. None of his awards, his military medals, his records of professional accomplishments were displayed here. Those things were private. They were not meant to impress or intimidate. He knew he had earned them. That was enough. They were kept upstairs in a small, locked storage closet. Sometimes he would look at them. But mostly they just sat up there gathering dust.

They were records of the past.

Kent had always been a forward thinker.

He unlocked a safe that sat on a shelf behind his desk and drew the paper out. It was Roy West’s white paper. A thing of intellectual beauty from a man who had become a paranoid militia nut. It was hard to believe that he could have concocted something that powerful. But perhaps from the forming depths of paranoia sometimes sprang genius, if for only a few frenetically productive moments.

Yet they had taken his original vision and turned it into something very different that suited their own purposes.

He walked over to the gas fireplace set against one wall. With a flick of a remote that he kept on the mantel, Kent turned on the fireplace. Then he dropped the white paper on top of the gas logs and watched it quickly disintegrate.

In less than thirty seconds it was gone.

But the ideas in there would remain with Kent for the rest of his life.

Whether that was to be a short or long time he couldn’t tell right now.

He was suddenly beset with doubts. His mind raced ahead to one catastrophic scenario after another. Such thoughts were never productive. But finally his military training took over and he calmed rapidly.

His secure phone, still on the desk, buzzed.

He hurried over to it.

The message was from the person with whom he had just talked.

It was a text. It was only three words.

But to Kent it proved his superior was indeed a mind reader.

The text read, No going back.

CHAPTER

61

THE CAR WAS PARKED OUTSIDE of a grill pub across from a bank. It was late, the darkness deep and broken only by the exterior light of the building.

There were only four other cars in the parking lot. One car’s lights came on as the owner hit the unlock button on her key fob.

She walked toward the car, staggering slightly. She had had more to drink than she probably should have. But she lived close by and was confident she could navigate the roads to her home safely.

She climbed into the car and closed the door behind her. She started to put the key in the ignition when a hand clamped over her mouth.

Her right hand went to her purse, to retrieve the pistol she kept there. But another hand encircled her wrist and held it inches from the purse.

The passenger door opened and the woman climbed in.

She had her gun pointed at the driver’s head.

The woman with the gun was Jessica Reel.

The woman in the driver’s seat did not seem to recognize her. She started, though, when the man’s voice from the backseat said, “I might need you to sew me up again, Doc. The tracking device in the sutures got broken.”

In the rearview mirror Karin Meenan looked at Will Robie.

He said, “Start the car. Then we’ll tell you where to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” said Meenan.

Reel pulled the hammer back on her gun.

“Then she’s going to put a bullet in your head right now,” said Robie.

Meenan glanced at Reel, who was staring directly at her. The look in the woman’s features was clear. She wanted to pull the trigger. She was hoping for any chance, any opportunity provided by Meenan, to do so.