“Ah, the idiot Libyans are too enthusiastic. But, eh, things happen. We have what we want.”

“You’re lucky he’s alive.”

“I want the robot and the sensors,” said Foma. “The scientist is a bonus. But I don’t know. Maybe we kill him anyway.”

“Let me.”

Foma laughed. “You are an idiot. You should be begging for your life.”

“Why?”

“You think that I was such a fool that I didn’t know your plan? Do you think that I would let you use my operation for some petty goal? You think the SVR is stupid? Something to be used by a child whom we employ? You are clever, Kharon, but not experienced. We have helped you many times, and you didn’t even know—how do you think you found the shelter under the university? Do you think you could have broken into the computer systems there without our help?”

“I did that myself.”

“Yes, yes, of course you did. You are a very brilliant man. You have an IQ of one hundred and eighty, almost twice as much as mine, eh? But I am the one with the guns.”

“Bullshit.” Kharon raised his fist to swing at the fat Russian. As he did, something hit him across the back of the head and he fell forward, limp.

4

Sicily

Danny Freah was not particularly superstitious, but a second before the phone rang he had a premonition that it was about something bad. It was a vague and inexact feeling, but as soon as he heard Breanna Stockard’s voice, he knew he was right.

“Something has happened to Ray,” she told him. “We have an alert on our system—the computer is tracking him moving south of Tripoli, but he hasn’t answered his sat phone.”

“Tripoli?” Danny stifled a flood of curses. “I told him not to go to Africa. Did you approve that?”

“Ray is not under my command,” said Breanna. “This isn’t Dreamland anymore, Danny. We can’t tell him what to do.”

“Damn it.” It was all he could say. “We talked about it—I talked to him, I told him not to go. His people here haven’t said a word—they claimed he was busy. Damn.”

“We’re tracking him on the MY-PID system,” she told him. “There was a spike in his heartbeat that alerted the system monitor. His people tried to get ahold of him, and then the security team with him. It looks like his bodyguards were killed. There’s apparently some high-tech equipment that may have been taken as well. We’re still getting details—this all only happened a few minutes ago.”

“We’ll get him back.”

“Obviously, this has top priority.”

“Damn.” Danny didn’t know what else to say.

“What the hell was he thinking?” Breanna asked. “You told him not to go to Africa? What was he thinking?”

“That he’s omnipotent. The arrogant SOB.”

Not more than a minute later a man named Clinton Chase sent a message to Danny on the MY-PID system’s secure line, asking for a video conference. Danny flicked the laptop screen and opened the com window. The round, slightly reddish face of a man in his late fifties appeared, practically filling the entire square.

Chase, a former CIA agent, was the security director for one of Rubeo’s European companies, Intelligence Appliquée. Danny had never heard of Intelligence Appliquée, though he knew Rubeo operated through a veritable spiderweb of companies and partnerships.

“I’m assuming you’re tracking his whereabouts on the system,” said Chase.

“He’s ten miles south of Tripoli,” said Danny.

“When are you launching the assault?”

“Hold your horses,” said Danny. “I literally just found out about this. I can’t just snap my fingers and charge across three hundred miles of water and another hundred miles of sand without a plan in place. I’m not even sure what resources I have yet.”

“You’re Whiplash,” said Chase. “You’re supposed to be able to deal with things like this.”

“I was here in a different capacity,” said Danny, practically grating his teeth. “I have team members, but we’re not prepared for a rescue at a moment’s notice.”

“Well who is?”

Danny decided it was better not to answer. Chase might prove useful, and it was best to avoid alienating him to the extent possible.

“I’ll be in Tripoli by noon,” added Chase. “If you care to coordinate with me, contact me.”

“I don’t want you doing anything that’s going to jeopardize our getting him back,” said Danny.

“That makes two of us,” said Chase sarcastically. He killed his connection.

“What’s up with that asshole?” asked Boston, who’d come into the office during the conversation.

“Don’t you knock, Chief?”

“I did and you didn’t hear.” Boston smirked. “Chief’s knock.”

Boston’s expression changed quickly as Danny explained what had happened.

“We’ve got Shorty and we got Flash,” said the Air Force chief master sergeant. “That’s it on personnel. Unless you want to start borrowing Eye-tralians. Two Ospreys for transport and firepower. That’s not a lot if they were able to grab Rubeo in broad daylight. What the hell was he thinking?”

Danny shook his head. Arrogance was a difficult thing to explain.

“How soon can you get the Ospreys airborne?” he asked.

“Gotta talk to the maintainers,” said Boston. “Probably pretty quick, though. Half hour? Twenty minutes? Whatever it takes to get fuel into them.”

“All right, let’s get moving. We’ll do this on the fly.”

“Say, Cap?”

Danny winced at the old nickname.

“Sorry—Colonel,” Boston corrected himself. “What about having the Tigershark fly cover? Come in pretty handy.”

“I don’t know.”

“The aircraft’s all checked out.”

“I wish I could say the same for the pilot.”

But it was a good idea. Danny picked up his phone and dialed Turk’s cell.

5

South of Tripoli

Rubeo regained consciousness on the floor of a panel truck, his arms and legs bound. It was dark, but he could tell he wasn’t alone. He pushed to the side, rolling over halfway until he hit something.

Another body.

Jons, maybe.

Whoever it was, he didn’t move or speak. His shallow breaths sounded like groans.

Rubeo pushed in the opposite direction, moving a foot and a half until he got to the wall. He maneuvered himself upright and sat, back to the wall of the truck.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he examined the other person in the truck with him. He looked too thin to be Jons.

Lawson? He’d been in the second vehicle.

Rubeo scooted over and leaned close.

It was Kharon, tied as he was.

Rubeo pushed back to the wall.

Kharon’s animosity had shocked him. But Rubeo understood exactly where it must be coming from—Kharon blamed him for his mother’s death.

“Neil. Neil?”

“What?” groaned Kharon. “What happened?”

“I believe you are in a far better position to explain than I am.”

Kharon, apparently realizing where he was, struggled to free himself. He jerked and rolled, but it was no use—the bonds were strong and well-tied. He flopped around like a prize brook trout confined to a canoe.

“You’re only going to hurt yourself,” Rubeo told him.

“I hate you,” said Kharon. “I hate you.”

“Why?”

“My mother.” Short on breath, Kharon began to choke, then wheezed and finally cried. He screamed, and banged his head on the floor of the van.

Rubeo closed his eyes. The manic display of grief continued for more than a minute, until finally Kharon collapsed, completely spent.