“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” said the President. “I always sing with the anthem. I hope my voice won’t offend you.”

Stoner gazed around the box, taking it all in. The President and her entourage were behind a thick plate of bulletproof glass, looking out at the stadium. There were two rows of seats in front of the box; these belonged to the suite and were unoccupied, except for two Secret Service agents who surveyed the crowd. Zen had hinted they might be able to sit there during the game; the view was actually not as good as from his seats, he claimed, but there would be free waiter service.

Stoner’s gaze moved out beyond the windows. There was another police UAV above the stadium, flying over the area where the parking garage was. It circled the stadium, its wing dipping erratically.

It looked like the one from the night before. And yet, as he studied it, he noticed several differences. Its nose was bigger than the other one. It was flying differently—the other had orbited endlessly; this one weaved, as if looking for something specific.

Stoner took a step forward, then another.

The aircraft turned. It was coming for them.

No . . .

Yes.

He leapt forward. One of the Secret Service agents put a hand up to stop him. Stoner tossed him aside, then jumped up and grabbed his fingers into the wooden panel of the ceiling, using them to swing his feet up against the glass. It broke with a splatter and he sailed into the seats overlooking the ball field. He tried to roll onto his side as he flew but couldn’t quite make it; his elbow smacked hard against one of the seat backs.

It hurt. That was a new sensation.

Stoner rose, saw the aircraft, and leapt straight out at it, his bionically enhanced legs giving him the leverage of an Olympic pole vaulter.

He caught the wing of the aircraft with his right hand, pushing it as violently as he could before falling straight down into a black, black hole.

Chapter 13

Nationals Park

Zen gasped as the air in front of the suite erupted in fire. Something burst in his face. He and his wheelchair flew backward against the wall. The next thing he knew he was on the ground in the dark. Something was on top of him. It was a piece of the ceiling. He pushed it off, then levered himself upright in time to see two Secret Service agents with drawn Uzis pulling the President from the suite.

“What the hell!” yelled Zen.

Someone grabbed him and jerked him up.

“What the hell is going on!” he yelled, taking a swing with his elbow.

He and the man who had picked him up fell down.

“Sir, we’re with the President,” yelled another man. “We’re taking you to safety. Just come!”

Someone else was yelling, “Go, go, go!”

Zen was picked up again. This time he didn’t fight.

Two and a half minutes later he was deposited in the back of a black SUV. President Todd was next to him.

“Are you OK, Jeff?” she asked.

“I—I guess so.”

“There was a bomb in a plane,” Todd told him. “They’re just getting the details now. I have to go back to the White House.”

“My friends—”

“They’re upstairs.”

“I want to stay with them.”

“Jeff, this is very serious.”

“I have to stay with them,” insisted Zen.

Todd rapped on the window separating her from the front.

“Let the senator out. He wants to be with his friends.”

“Ma’am—”

“Considering that one of them just saved my life,” she said, “it’s the least we can do.”

By the time Zen reached Stoner, he had been loaded onto a stretcher and was being taken out onto the field where a medevac helicopter was waiting. One of the attendants who had worked on him after he fell into the crowd looked at Zen and shook his head.

“Is he dead?” Zen asked.

“Which one?”

“The guy who fell from the box up there,” said Zen, pointing.

“No, sir. But I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

Zen turned his head as the helicopter lifted off with Stoner inside.

“He will,” Zen said. “I’ve seen him die before.”

Chapter 14

Washington, D.C. suburbs

Breanna ran to the door as Zen’s van pulled up. She hesitated, unsuccessfully trying to stop her tears before opening the door.

“Hey,” he said as he wheeled toward her. “What’s up?”

“Oh my God, Zen, how can you be so goddamn cool?” She ran out and threw her arms around his chest. Her sobs erupted into a body-shaking tremor.

“Hey, I’m OK,” he protested. “Hardly even a scratch. I was more worried about my wheelchair.”

“Jeff, Jeff,” she said, over and over again. “God. My God.”

“Hey guys!” Zen waved.

Breanna turned around to see Teri and Caroline in the doorway. Two local policemen and the department chief loomed behind them; the chief had taken it upon himself to come over to protect them.

“I don’t know what all the fuss is,” he said as the girls ran to him. “But I’m not proud—I’ll take kisses.”

When she managed to calm down, Breanna asked what had happened.

“I’ll give you a rundown as I change,” Zen told her, glancing at Teri—an indication he didn’t want her to hear all of the details. “But I gotta go over to the hospital. Mark’s there.”

“Mark?”

“Stoner. He saved the President’s life.”

None of that had been in the media reports.

“Is he OK?” Breanna asked.

Zen glanced at Teri again.

“I gotta go. Help me change, OK?”

Breanna suppressed a shudder, then followed her husband into the house.

AboutDale Brown

DALE BROWN, a former U.S. Air Force captain, was born inBuffalo, New York, and now lives in Nevada. He graduated from Penn StateUniversity with a degree in Western European history and received a U.S. AirForce commission in 1978. He was still serving in the Air Force when he wrotehis highly acclaimed first novel, Flight of the OldDog. Since then he has written a string of NewYork Times bestsellers, including most recently Shadow Command, Rogue Forces, Executive Intent, and A Time forPatriots.

For more information, visit DaleBrown at www.dalebrown.info.

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Praise for DALE BROWN

“Dale Brown is a superb storyteller.”

W.E.B. Griffin, Washington Post

“[Brown] gives us quite a ride.”

New York Times Book Review

“The novels of Dale Brown brim with violent action, detailed descriptions of sophisticated weaponry, and political intrigue. . . . His ability to bring technical weaponry to life is amazing.”

San Francisco Chronicle

“A master at creating a sweeping epic and making it seem real.”

Clive Cussler

“His knowledge of world politics and possible military alliances is stunning. . . . He writes about weapons beyond a mere mortal’s imagination.”