CHAPTER 19

WASHINGTON, D.C.

MIKE Nash lay on his side, the wind knocked from his lungs, his arms pinned beneath his body. His eyes fluttered, then opened only to find a sea of dust and debris. With great effort he rolled onto his back. A jolt of stabbing pain shot through his body. After a moment it passed and was replaced by a strange, comforting warmth that spread beneath him. It was oddly silent, the air filled with a pungent odor. Slowly, steadily, the pain in his ears began to build. A figure emerged from the dust, holding a rifle. A slack-jawed Nash stared up at the man, trying to make sense of it all. Where in the hell was he? None of this made sense.

It was the weapon that brought him halfway back to reality. It was an M4 Carbine. Nash didn’t know why he knew what it was, but he had an almost instinctive familiarity with the weapon. The man standing above him swung his rifle around, dropped into a half crouch, and began firing. Shell casings tumbled from the ejection port, peppering Nash’s head. The hot brass on his cheek was like a slap to the face. His perception of reality went from narrow to panoramic in a split second, and then back again. The last few tumblers fell into place and Nash realized there had been an explosion. That warm feeling spreading beneath him was his own damn blood.

Nash tried to move. Knew he had to move. Once the shooting started, you had to move. Movement meant survival. The opposite meant death, or worse, capture. He rolled onto his side and felt a warm, sticky goo begin to pour out of his ear. The man standing over him dropped to a knee and began running a hand over Nash’s back while his eyes and weapon swept the area. The man jerked his weapon to the left and unleashed another volley while Nash rolled flat onto his back again.

Nash watched the man hit the magazine release on his weapon. Saw the empty metal box fall free. Watched the man slam a new magazine home without looking. He fired another volley, glanced down at Nash, and screamed a question. Nash couldn’t hear a thing the man was saying, but he finally realized who it was – Mitch Rapp.

Somewhere in the distance there was a rhythmic banging noise; oddly familiar, but distinctly out of place. Rapp grabbed him by his shoulder harness and began dragging him out of the line of fire. Nash’s back was suddenly on fire with pain as he was pulled over the debris from the explosion. As the first wave of pain passed, he came to the horrifying realization that he couldn’t feel his legs. The strange banging noise grew louder.

Nash’s eyes snapped open, and he was instantly transported thousands of miles from the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Pakistan to his home in suburban Washington, D.C. His right arm slid under the sheets and found the warm skin of his wife. His eyes focused on the familiar pink-and-white crystal chandelier she had insisted on hanging above their bed. He sighed, closed his eyes, and wiggled his toes. The banging noise started up again. It was coming from down the hallway and was neither unfamiliar nor unwelcome.

Nash rolled onto his side, threw back the covers, and swung his legs onto the floor. He was wearing a pair of gray flannel pajama pants and nothing else. He put his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his short brown hair. At thirty-eight he was still in peak physical shape, but the chiseled exterior hid inner flaws. A stabbing pain shot from one temple to the other, so much so that it hurt to open his eyes. It reminded him of his days in the Marine Corps when he used to drink way too much. If only he were so lucky. He’d been to three separate specialists and none of them could tell him why he was waylaid with a splitting headache every morning when he got out of bed. Apparently, massive explosions could do more than just give you a concussion.

All complaining aside, he was grateful he could walk. It had taken four surgeries to pluck all the shrapnel from his back. The last one was the most delicate, since it involved removing a piece of razor-sharp metal from between his L3 and L4 vertebrae. After that surgery his progress had been amazing.

Other than the physical scars of the molten hot shrapnel that had peppered his back, there were few signs that Mike Nash had changed, but those close to him could tell he was holding on a little too tight. His wife had warned him. Thomas Dudley, the psychiatrist he worked with, had been pulling him aside every chance he got – trying to get him to talk about what he’d been through. Told him he needed to find a way to blow off some steam.

An unfortunate choice of words, considering the debacle that had taken place the previous evening. The last thing Nash wanted to do was revisit that subject. He was an expert at mental triage. He had learned it well on the wrestling mats and football fields of his youth. The Marines had further perfected the survival skill, and the CIA had given him the equivalent of a master’s degree. Repress and move on, that was their motto. Maybe there would be time to deal with all of it later. Maybe it would simply fix itself. He sure as hell hoped so, because life had become decidedly less enjoyable.

His thoughts turned to Rapp. Nash told himself he had no right to complain about a thing. The man had jumped on a grenade for all of them. The shit storm of all shit storms was about to come raining down on them and Rapp had walked right into it. Told the rest of them to get away. Nash glanced over his shoulder at his wife, thought of the great years they’d had together, and wondered how she and the kids would handle it if he got indicted. Rapp was convinced he could take the heat and keep the attention off everyone else, but Nash had his doubts. Congressional investigations were bad enough, but his one had the earmarks of something much bigger. It smelled like one for the Office of Special Counsel and that meant it could last for years, their net getting bigger and bigger, and catching all kinds of crap none of them could have predicted.

The banging noise down the hall grew in its ferocity. His wife stirred. Nash stood and walked stiffly across the room and down the hallway. Two other bedroom doors were firmly closed, but the last one on the left was ajar. The mystery noise was emanating from the smallest room on the second floor. Nash stopped just outside and peeked through the crack. Inside he caught a glimpse of one-year-old Charlie as he ran from one end of the crib to the other and then back again like he was a professional wrestler bouncing off the ropes and working up a head of steam for a clothesline or an atomic leg drop.

After a few more laps he stopped and grabbed on to the side rail. His tiny fingers clutched the white wood, his cheeks puffed with air and he gave it everything he had. Back and forth, back and forth. Bang… bang. Bang… bang.

Mike Nash got a huge kick out of this little kid’s determination. He pushed the door open another foot and waited to be seen.

Charlie caught the movement and looked over the top rail with his big brown eyes. A huge smile spread across the baby’s face. He sprang up on his toes, threw out his arms, and squealed, “Dada. Dada.”

Mike Nash brimmed with unbridled love. He hadn’t seen the little fella in a week. He crossed the small nursery, grabbed Charlie under his outstretched arms, lifted him up, and brought him in tight. Nash kissed him on his shiny, red cheek and then went to work on his neck. Charlie giggled and then squealed with laughter.

“Good morning, Chuck,” Nash said in a whisper. “Did you miss me?”

Charlie took his two pudgy hands, slapped his father’s face with surprising force, and then tried to grab as much skin as possible. Nash broke free by shaking his head and then started snapping his teeth at Charlie’s fingers. Charlie pulled his hands back and squealed in delight.