“The detonator!”

Naji pointed. The detonator sat on the table, its red button sticking up in the air.

Faqir stepped toward the table, his hand extended.

*   *   *

Polk stood at the wheel, watching from a distance as the three SEALs climbed aboard the boat. He waited to see the man fall. Then the long white-blond hair of a girl emerged onto the deck.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Hector—”

The scream cut across the water, interrupting Polk. He turned to see Katie. Their eyes met.

“Shut it down!” yelled Calibrisi. “Greer, tell your SEALs to stand down and identify themselves and calm those people down. If the terrorists see them, it’s all over—”

“Roger,” said Ambern.

“On our way,” said Polk.

Polk pushed the throttle forward and sped toward the scene.

“Goddammit,” he muttered, shaking his head. He glanced at Katie.

“That was my fault,” she said.

“No, it wasn’t. It was mine. I should’ve let Tacoma drive. Rob, you take over.”

Polk turned around.

“Where’s Rob?” he asked, looking at Katie.

Katie swiveled her head, looking for Tacoma, but he was gone.

108

NEW YORK HARBOR

Tacoma saw him just after Polk rammed the cigarette boat. The moment just before Calibrisi ordered in the SEALs.

He was standing on a different boat, a pretty white boat, behind the cigarette boat, far away from the boat that was about to be attacked by the SEALs.

He was bald. But it wasn’t normal-looking. It was the unmistakable grayness of death, the sickly color of a person after he’s been irradiated. It was the look his mother had just before she died.

In that second of recognition, Tacoma knew that the SEALs were approaching the wrong boat. And that once the bald man saw the frogmen, it would all be over. Everything.

Shielded momentarily by the cigarette boat, Tacoma ripped off his shirt and jeans. Beneath, he had on an Olympic-style tactical warm weather swimsuit, armless at the top, thin material down to midthigh, all black. He slipped into the water as Polk and Katie were turned in the opposite direction, watching the other boat just as the SEALs made their approach from below.

He dived down until he was safely beneath the hulls of boats overhead.

Tacoma navigated as he’d done as a kid—before he knew what UDT stood for, before Hell Week, before SEALs, before there were masks with digitally imposed maps, before he knew what commo was, when it was just the water at the lake and the moonlight.

He swam as fast as he’d ever done, arms lunging, legs kicking furiously, lungs burning, desperate for another breath of air. When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he kept going, until he saw it: the dark green hull of the Talaria and, just above the waterline, the fresh white paint the terrorists had slapped on to cover it up.

He felt a rush of warmth as adrenaline flamed inside him. Time seemed to stand still. It was as if he’d been born to be here.

He grabbed the wooden ski platform and climbed up.

He slipped silently onto the transom at the same moment his hand pulled the SIG Sauer P226 from his weapons pocket, then raised the gun, its black suppressor targeted toward the two men.

He climbed onto the deck. He stood without moving, dripping wet, clutching the gun. He trained the muzzle on the driver, then waited in silence. And then a young girl’s screams echoed across the water.

Both men turned.

Tacoma fired a slug into the side of the driver’s head, spraying blood and brains across the console, dropping the man to the deck in a contorted heap.

In the half second that followed, the bald man raised his withered arm. He stretched it out toward Tacoma, as if pointing.

It was then that Tacoma saw it.

In between where they stood was a table. On the table was the detonator. Its red button stuck up in the air, as if asking to be pressed.

His eyes locked with Tacoma’s. Small eyes, clever eyes, black eyes filled with hate. They moved to the gun, carefully studying the hole at the end of the suppressor, still aimed at his head.

A long, pregnant silence took over the deck.

Both of them knew where the detonator was. Both knew that if the terrorist lunged, even if Tacoma shot him at that same moment, the momentum of his lunge would enable him to land on the detonator.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Tacoma calmly, still breathing heavily. “You’re thinking, should I go for it? Even if he shoots me, I’ll probably land on it. Am I right?”

The bald man didn’t respond. Instead, he crouched ever so slightly, coiling his legs, waiting for the precise moment to go.

“The thing is, if I shot you in the head, you’d be right,” continued Tacoma, still holding the man’s skull in the center of the gun. “It would go right through your brain and out the back. In fact, it would probably go pretty damn quick because of how small your brain is.”

Tacoma grinned slightly, then swept the muzzle down, stopping when it was aimed dead center at the terrorist’s chest.

“But the breastplate is a lot stronger,” said Tacoma. “Runs down through your body. That’s where you fucked up. You should’ve gone for it when I had it aimed at your head. You would’ve won. Now that I got your breastplate, it doesn’t matter how hard you jump. Doesn’t fuckin’ matter anymore. As long as I can hit that breastplate, you’re going backward. No way around it. It’s physics, dude.”

The terrorist jumped toward the table, surprising Tacoma. But the surprise lasted less than a second. Tacoma pumped the trigger. A telltale metallic thwack was the only sound as the suppressed gun sent a slug through the air. It struck him dead center in the chest, kicking him off his feet and back into the wall. He dropped.

Tacoma walked across the deck, gun aimed at all times on the man. He stepped above him, then stared down into his eyes.

“You see? I told ya.”

He inched the suppressor up a few inches, then pumped another slug between the terrorist’s eyes.

“Happy Independence Day, motherfucker.”

EPILOGUE

FREEMANS

NEW YORK CITY

THREE MONTHS LATER

Freemans was crowded. The New York City restaurant, located at the end of a dark alley, was like an old hunting club on the inside, with dark wood and stuffed moose and deer heads hanging from the walls. There was barely enough light to see.

Dewey was a few minutes early and he stepped to the bar, ordering a bourbon and a beer, both of which he deposited down his throat so quickly that the bartender did a double take.

“Another round?”

Dewey nodded.

The bar was packed. Most of the people there were in their twenties. Of the two dozen or so people at the bar, Dewey guessed that three-quarters of them were female, and three-quarters of them were models.

Tacoma, he thought as he drained the second bourbon, then sat down and took a small sip of beer.

Suddenly, a magazine landed on the bar in front of Dewey in the same moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was Calibrisi.

“Hi, hotshot.”

“Hi, Hector.”

On the bar was the most recent issue of People magazine. The cover showed a male movie star Dewey didn’t recognize. Below his face, the cover read: “The 50 Sexiest Men Alive.”

“Oh, goody,” said Dewey, enthusiastically. “I haven’t seen this issue yet.”

Calibrisi took the stool next to Dewey and ordered a glass of wine.

“Page sixty,” said Calibrisi, nodding with a smile at the magazine.

“You finally made it,” said Dewey, flipping through the magazine. “It’s about time they started considering large protruding hairy guts sexy.”

“Fuck you. Read it.”

As he flipped through the magazine, he stopped at an earlier article. It featured a large photo of Katya Basaeyev. She was seated in a chair, legs crossed, smiling. Behind her, a window showed the skyline of Moscow on a sunny day.