Kennedy had warned the doctor there was a good chance Rapp would need to be restrained when he came to. The doctor listed off the injuries: two broken ribs, a broken right arm, a deep contusion on the right thigh, a left knee that had just been operated on, and swelling on the back of the brain. He assured Kennedy that the patient wouldn't be going anywhere for some time.

As the orderlies held him down, the doctor jabbed a needle in his thigh and hit the plunger. After about ten seconds the fight was out of Rapp. The orderlies released him and took a step back. Rapp lay there motionless, staring up at the ceiling, a single tear moving slowly from the corner of his right eye and tracing a path down his cheek.

THERE WASN'T MUCH left of the house other than the reinforced steel door frames, the chimney, a small section of the staircase, and a few charred studs that jutted up from the smoking hulk of the first floor. The entire scene was illuminated with portable floodlights. Gas-powered electric generators hummed in the night air while firefighters picked through the rubble with axes and long crowbars. Skip McMahon surveyed the scene from the end of the driveway. He was a big man, over six feet tall and closer to 250 pounds than he was to 200. He'd been with the FBI thirty-five years and this one hit close to home. He knew both Rapp and his wife and liked them. Kennedy had called McMahon and asked him to treat the house as a potential crime scene even though the sheriff for Anne Arundel County was calling it an accidental explosion.

Normally the FBI would have no jurisdiction over something like this, but Rapp was a federal agent, and if it turned out the explosion was intentional, they would take over the investigation. For now, though, McMahon and the agents he'd brought from the Washington Field Office were there to watch and try not to upset the apple cart. The Anne Arundel sheriff's department was well funded and professional. McMahon had worked with local law enforcement enough over the years to know that coming in and acting like you were hot shit did nothing but aggravate an already difficult situation.

McMahon leaned against his government-issue sedan and took a swig of lukewarm coffee. The sheriff approached and stopped a few paces away. He knew the Anne Arundel County sheriff from the DC-Baltimore Joint Terrorism Task Force. The man started talking, and despite the fact that McMahon disagreed with him he listened patiently.

"I'm telling you, Skip, I know it's hard to believe, but we get one of these explosions every year or so. Usually no one's home, but it happens."

McMahon looked at the smoking pile of debris that was once Rapp's house. "Pat, I'm only going to say it one more time. Guys like Mitch Rapp don't get blown up by accident."

"And terrorists don't fake explosions. You said it yourself. They like machine guns, they like suicide bombers, they like headlines. They don't kill people and try to make it look like an accident."

McMahon had to admit he was having a hard time squaring this one glaring inconsistency. The sheriff was right; terrorists liked big explosions. That's what got them news coverage. McMahon didn't know a lot about the forensics of bombs, but so far the local experts were saying all evidence pointed to a propane explosion. McMahon wanted to be sure, so he'd put a call into headquarters and asked for them to send the bureau's forensic bomb people out here. They were the best in the world, and if they couldn't find anything, he doubted they could prove it wasn't an accident. If that was the case the FBI would pack up its bags and head back to DC. The only thing left to take care of would be the insurance.

"Has anyone taken credit for the explosion?" the sheriff asked.

McMahon shook his head. The agents back at the Joint Counterterrorism Center were monitoring all news outlets for mention of the attack. McMahon had been tempted to pass on what Kennedy had told him about the threat on Rapp's life that had come in the week before, but for now he decided to withhold the information. Investigations were always tricky when they involved multiple jurisdictions, but they were never more complicated than when they involved the CIA. For good reason, the CIA didn't like sharing its sources and methods. Especially when judges ordered them to hand such information over to lawyers who represented suspected terrorists.

The sheriff was hammering his point home to McMahon when one of his deputies came up. Two men in street clothes were following him.

"Boss," the deputy said to the sheriff, "these two guys say they're here to see a Special Agent McMahon."

The sheriff jerked his thumb toward McMahon. "Here he is."

"There's also a news van at the checkpoint."

"Crap," said the sheriff.

"It's the NBC affiliate from Baltimore," the deputy offered. "They know the wife died. They said the network sent them down to get some footage for a tribute they're going to run in the morning."

"What do you think?" the sheriff asked McMahon.

One of the men who had come up with the deputy looked at McMahon and shook his head. McMahon was not surprised that the man did not want cameras around. He looked over at the smoking house and turned to the deputy. "Tell them we're checking for gas leaks. It'll be about another hour."

The sheriff nodded his consent and the deputy left.

"Sheriff," said McMahon, "if you'll excuse me for a minute, I need to talk to these gentlemen."

"I'll go make sure the TV crew doesn't weasel their way in here."

"Good idea." When the sheriff was gone, McMahon looked at the two men. He knew the blond-haired man, but had never met the other guy. He could tell a great deal, though, by taking a quick inventory of him. He was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a black Mountain Hard-wear fleece jacket. He had a large black rubber dive watch on his right wrist, his hair was dark and shaggy, and although he was a good seventy-five pounds lighter than the FBI agent, McMahon had no doubt the little scrapper could kill him without breaking a sweat. The guy was Special Forces from head to toe.

All of this was easy to surmise since he already knew for a fact that the other man had indeed been Special Forces. McMahon turned his attention back to the taller of the two. "Scott Coleman," he said, "I was about to say you're the last person I expected to see, but now that I think about it I should have expected you."

"Irene called me." The former SEAL was all business. "She wanted us to take a look around."

McMahon thought about that for a second. He wasn't so sure he agreed with the director of the CIA. "Who's your friend?"

Coleman started to answer, and then McMahon put his hand out and cut him off. "Never mind," the agent said. "I don't want to know. Do I?"

Coleman shrugged. "It wasn't like I was going to give you his real name."

McMahon shook his head and turned toward the house. "You ever been here before?"

Coleman nodded.

"I suppose you and Mitch are pretty tight."

"Yeah." Coleman looked at the other man he'd come with and made a slight gesture with his head. "You know what to look for."

The man looked each way down the road, nodded, and was gone.

"They're saying it's a gas explosion."

McMahon nodded. "Propane."

"Who?"

"The sheriff and the fire chief."

"Can I talk to the fire chief?"

"Sure, follow me." They walked roughly halfway down the driveway and found the county fire chief nudging a piece of debris with his boot. The man had gotten rid of his jacket, but he was still wearing his heavy boots, helmet, and fire-resistant overalls. McMahon made a quick introduction, telling the chief Coleman's first name and nothing more.

The fire chief started by pointing back toward the left side of the charred house. "We found some traces of an accelerant over there where the garage used to be and near where the propane tank used to sit."