

The Handyman   
by   
Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte 2018

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

## Contents

Part One... Nazarov

Chapter 1... Discovery In Potomac

Chapter 2... The Blood Smudge

Chapter 3... The VFW

Chapter 4... Intruders

Chapter 5... Riding With Tiny

Part Two... Rachel

Chapter 6... Rachel

Chapter 7... Going Under

Chapter 8... Working On Instinct

Chapter 9... The Animal Inside

Chapter 10... Going After Jake

Part Three... Pursuit

Chapter 11... Proof Of Life

Chapter 12... Let's Get Ready To Rumble

Chapter 13... Meetinghouse Road

Part Four... Takedown

Chapter 14... Whitney's House

Chapter 15... Meeting In Potomac

Chapter 16... Reconnaissance Mission

Chapter 17... The Room

Chapter 18... The Veterans

Part Five... Epilogue

Chapter 19... The Other Side

# Part One

# Nazarov

Chapter 1... Discovery In Potomac

I like to work with my hands. I always have. That's what made me valuable back in the day, which is not to say that I no longer have skills. The ones I used back then were quite different that the ones I practice now, however. Back then it was get in and get out undetected, the only evidence that we'd been there being the dead bodies and the smell of C-4. Now, people are actually glad to see me. My last operation as an Army Ranger was my last—an interesting way of saying it—as evidenced by this plate in my head, the ultimate result of one too many close-combat missions. Those missions ended for me after we closed in on what we thought was a sniper's nest protecting an Al Qaeda compound on the outskirts of Ramadi. When we realized that access to the nest was too easy, we were already inside the trap. Two of us were taken down by small arms fire, with two more taken out by IED booby traps that lined what looked to be an escape route. I was one of the two taken down by the IEDs. One of us didn't make it back at all.

That was in 2006 and I've been fighting with the VA ever since on the extent of the traumatic brain injury I suffered as a result of that IED. According to them, the level of TBI severity was to have been determined at the time my injury occurred and not on the basis of current symptoms. Yeah, well, if I'm not suffering from increasingly severe residual effects, then let them tell me why I have sinus headaches so severe that I can't think straight. Or why my nose drips twenty-four hours a day. A month ago I went two whole days without being able to remember my wife's name. While it's possible that the VA or anyone else can't do anything about the actual injury, the fact that the VA is not yet recognizing these residual symptoms affects my disability rating, which affects the amount of disability compensation I get. That's why I have to work, and the TBI is one of the reasons that I work on my own. Very few employers want to take on the liability of hiring a disabled vet with an injury like mine, you see. They think I can snap any minute. Truth be told, the way things are going that might not be far from the truth, but I think I'd rather work alone anyway; I got enough of taking orders from people who didn't know their ass from their elbow when I was in the Army. Do it with me, now: _this is my ass, this is my elbow._ My name is Jake Blackwell, and I'm a handyman.

* * * * *

_Monday, April 14_ th _, 11 a.m._ "Yes, Whitney, I'll schedule it next as soon as I'm done with the job I'm at right now. I should be able to get there day after tomorrow. You owe me for this."

"Thanks Jakey. When would you like to collect?"

I knew what that meant, and I gotta tell ya' there were times when I was tempted to do just that from Whitney Valentine, but that wouldn't have been right. That, plus the fact that there's no way I could have hidden it from my wife. She has radar when it comes to things like that. "I'm a married man, Whitney. Text me your client's contact information and tell him I'll be there day after tomorrow like I said."

"Will do. Lucky woman that wife of yours. Bye Jakey."

Whitney was pretty hot for a lady closing in on forty and she played that card for all it was worth, which in her line of work could be quite a lot. She's one of the many realtors that circle over Potomac, Maryland, like the predators that they are. All you see when you look at Whitney are high heels, tits, and teeth, and she'll hunt you down if she has the slightest inkling that you're shopping the market. She's nobody's fool, however, and she sells a lot of houses which is why she sends me a lot of business. There's always something that has to be done before a house is ready to be listed, or something new owners want done before they move in, and I'm Whitney's go-to guy for jobs like that. Someone told me she used to dance at the Cheetah Club back in the '90s but I think that was just a nasty rumor. My wife doesn't like it that she calls me Jakey.

There's a lot of money in Potomac, and I mean lots of it, and the place is full of the idiosyncrasies and weirdness that comes with it. And you'd be shocked at the number of people who _work from home_. I mean, they run mega-million dollar businesses from their kitchen counters—in their pajamas, or, occasionally, even out of their pajamas. I've seen women sunbathing out of their pajamas when they knew full well that I was there doing some work; I've seen housekeepers vacuuming in garter belts and black leather boots; I've even seen people exercising naked with their personal trainers, but if I see one more hairy-backed fat guy looking at his stock portfolio out of his pajamas, I swear I'm going to open the gas valve on him and stick a magazine in the toaster.

Luckily, the job I was doing in Potomac before I could move on to Whitney's thing didn't involve any nudity—on anyone's part. I had gotten a text from the guy saying I was referred to him, and could I do the work? That's how everything is these days: texts. I could run my entire business and never even speak to anyone if I wanted, but my fingers are too thick for texts so I just generally call people. This guy seemed normal enough for Potomac, some brainiac with four cars who owned a software company. He wanted to convert two of the rooms in his massive house into a home business office so he wouldn't have to travel into his regular office in Silver Spring every day. See, there's that _work at home_ thing again. The guy definitely wasn't American, but that also wasn't unusual for Potomac; there's plenty of foreign money floating around town. If I had to guess, I'd figure he was from one of the _–stan_ countries, as in Kazakhstan, or Uzbekistan, or somewhere around there. After all my time in the Middle East the hair on the back of my neck would stand up if I recognized someone from that area as opposed to Central Asia—which has plenty of crazy bastards of its own by the way, but nothing like where I served my four tours. Anyway, he'd had some cable strung into his walls and floors by his IT guys, and he needed some plastering and painting done to repair the areas they'd torn up. Easy enough for me and it was $2,500 bucks for three days' work, to which he didn't blink an eye.

I'm telling you this because I think I have a problem. It wasn't the money. Like I said, he cut me a check up front for the full amount and he seemed pretty happy with the work I'd done so far, but sometimes I run into things in other peoples' homes that I think maybe I'd be better off not knowing about. I mean, peoples' business is peoples' business. In this case, it's something I saw—or _think_ I saw.

I got there early the next morning as I usually do to sand down the spackling on some of the wallboard I had to replace, and I noticed right away that the IT guys had obviously been back to lay in some additional fiber optic stuff for some video equipment. No problem; I hadn't gotten to that part of the room yet, no sweat off my back. However, they'd shifted several pieces of furniture around in order to do what they needed to do. They also moved an exercise bike and some barbells that were in the corner, and now all that stuff was in my way so that I needed move it in order to get access to the areas I needed to sand. Again, not a big deal, it happens, but I was alone and lifting the furniture off the floor to move it was not possible by myself. I also couldn't just drag it across the guy's wood floors or I'd scratch them up and repairing that damage would be on my dime. That meant that with each piece I had to go to one end, lift it off the floor and move it over a couple of feet, then scooch back around to the other end, lift, and move that end over, back and forth, back and forth until I made room to for my ladder and my vacuum and I could lay down a drop cloth. It was a bit of a pain as there were several pieces of heavy furniture including a sofa, a pretty heavy executive desk, a library case, a credenza, etcetera, etcetera, you get the idea, but I managed. Once I had all the stuff moved, I laid some plastic sheeting over everything as sanding plaster with an orbit sander can create a good bit of dust, which, as with the floors, just wiping that off expensive furniture is harmful. Each miniscule piece of grit is actually a tiny rock, and dragging rocks across a $10,000-dollar executive desk is not a good idea.

I finished the sanding around noon and was picking up the sheeting and vacuuming up the spackle grit when the guy comes in from wherever he was that morning. He took a minute to check out the work the IT guys had done, then he looked in on what I was doing.

"Everything okay?" the guy asks. His name was Nazarov.

"Just fine, Mister Nazarov. I think the wallboard is done and I should be ready to paint tomorrow unless the IT crew has more cable to install."

"They will be coming back later today to finish up," he said as he pointed to a spot which I guess indicated where they would be working. "Would you mind making sure the area is clear for them? That's where they're going to install the data lines."

Inside my head I said, "Oh yeah, sure, no one gives a rat's ass about my back," but a customer is a customer and whining in front of one is not good business. Nazarov probably had no idea I'd just humped the stuff across the room all by myself. "Of course, no problem Mister Nazarov. How much room will they need?"

"Just a few feet," he said. "C'mon we'll move it together."

It was nice of him to offer, but I never let a customer do things like that. "That's okay. I got it. It will only take a few minutes."

"Are you sure?"

I could hear his cell phone going off inside his jacket. "Absolutely. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."

"Okay then," said Nazarov as he pushed a button on his phone. "You do good work, Jake," and he was out of the room and off into phone land.

I packed up my gear and double checked the paint swatches to make sure I had the right color information. I figured a gallon would be enough for the walls and then I'd need some semi-gloss for the trim moldings. I thought I'd grab some lunch and then head off to the paint store and just bring the paint with me the next day. Looked like I might get done a little early, which would give me enough time to mow my own lawn before dinner. Not having to worry about the clock is one of the perks of being your own boss and I take advantage of it whenever I can, especially during fishing season. All I needed to do was to clear the work area where Nazarov had indicated. I repeated the same dance with the furniture that I'd performed earlier, but I only had to move the items a few feet this time. If it wasn't quite right, the IT guys would have to deal with it themselves, I figured, just like I did. They had hands, right?

One of the items was a credenza, on legs, with a file drawer on one side and equipment storage on the other, with a keyboard tray and space for a computer monitor. It was meant to be positioned against the wall behind the free-floating executive desk, and it had a separate shelving unit that went on top of it. The thing was made of solid oak which made it pretty heavy, and I reached down and clamped on to one end of it, lifted, and moved that side over about two feet. I walked around to the other end and did the same maneuver, but something sharp sticking out of the underside dug into my finger, probably a staple or a tack that was used for the packing material when it came from the factory. Anyhow, I said, "Shit," and I dropped the end of the credenza maybe a little harder than normal when I felt that sharp object stab into my finger. I pulled my hand away and saw that blood was pouring out of the puncture hole there. Damn, I thought, hoping I wouldn't need to get a tetanus shot.

It was bleeding pretty good, so I ran out to my truck where I had a first aid kit and I bandaged it up tight and went back into the house. I didn't see any of Nazarov's cars in the driveway so I figured he was gone. Luckily, I hadn't locked myself out. I went back up to the work area and gathered up my equipment and the paint swatches, remembering to look into my notebook for the security code to the alarm system. Homeowners really have no choice but to trust me with things like that seeing as I'm often alone when I do my work. Some of them prefer that I set the code, while others just want me to make sure I lock the door on my way out. Anyway, I was finally ready to leave, but I happened to glance at the credenza and thought I might want to tap down that sharp whatever-it-was underneath so that someone else wouldn't have the same experience that I'd just enjoyed. I don't know; I guess I'm funny that way.

My toolbox was in the truck and I looked around for something heavy, metal, and blunt that I could use to tap down that sharp point, and I noticed some pliers that the IT guys had left behind. Oh well, maybe I could use those to just bend the point to the side; that would be good enough until I came back with my toolbox the next day. So I grabbed the pliers and got down low to check out what was underneath this credenza. I found the sharp point, all right, but I also spotted an envelope dangling there, taped to the underside of the file drawer. I also spotted several drops of blood, my blood, on the floor beneath. I went into the bathroom across the hall and pulled a wad of toilet paper to wipe up the blood, and I noticed that whatever was inside the dangling envelope was now just about falling out of it. I wondered: why was this envelope taped to the underside of the drawer to begin with? So I yanked it out of there.

However, peoples' business is peoples' business, right? I went to put it back, really screwing things up when the blood-soaked bandage on my finger left a big soaking blood smudge on the outside of the envelope. Now I've done it, I thought. How was I going to explain this? Or did I even need to explain it? Maybe I could just re-tape everything to the bottom of that credenza and just walk away and play stupid, which in my current state of mind wouldn't have been too hard, I figured. I looked at the blood smudge and knew there was nothing I could do about it; it was there forever. Then, I finally glanced at what I was holding. There were several heavy, oversized pages folded together; they looked like blueprints or schematic plans of some sort. I considered Nazarov's profession in the scenario. He owned a software company, right? Okay, I was holding plans to some company secret, and that's why they were hidden under that credenza. I concluded quickly that I should just tell Nazarov the truth, that the envelope had come loose, here it is, I swear I didn't look at what was inside, sorry about the blood smudge. He might get pissed, I thought, but it was the truth: I didn't know what I was holding, and no one else had seen it. No harm, no foul; that's what I would do.

Being careful to not mess up the papers more than I already had, I turned them over to put them back into the envelope and there it was, unmistakable, clear as glass, the word _detonator._ What? What kind of software had anything to do with a detonator? My mind started spinning with the possibilities. As part of the 3rd Battalion of the 75th Ranger Regiment, I'd been on enough missions and I'd been exposed to enough different types of military ordnance to know exactly what kind of software had to do with a detonator. Was I looking at plans for some kind of bomb? My heart went from _tick, tick, tick_ to _klong, klong, klong_ so that now my punctured finger started thumping like a bass drum.

I put two-and-two together. The envelope was meant to be hidden. Otherwise it would have been inside the file drawer instead of being taped underneath it. Then I thought: how did I know if the plans I was holding actually belonged to Nazarov? I mean, I don't know if he bought the furniture new, or if he bought it from someone else, or what. Maybe Nazarov had nothing to do with what I was holding. Then, I asked myself: what was I holding? Maybe I was jumping to conclusions. Maybe the pages in my hand weren't plans for a bomb. Easy Jake. Take it down a notch. I looked around as if I expected someone else to be there, but there wasn't. As a matter of fact, I'd never even seen anyone else in the house except for Nazarov. I didn't even know if he was married. Was he?

I figured it might be good to know that, and I wondered where the master bedroom was located. I was on the first floor; I figured it was on the second floor. Gingerly—as gingerly as a clunker like me can be—I made my way back toward the front door where I knew there was a double staircase that circled up both sides of the foyer area. I stopped at the bottom of the staircase and I didn't hear a sound. The door to the garage was off the foyer and I took a look, noting that there were three cars in the garage and not four. That probably meant that Nazarov was gone, and it also meant that if someone else lived in the house with him, that person was probably home. Paying attention to the now noticeable silence, I decided to take a chance and I bound up the stairs two steps at a time. One side of the hallway was lined with doors, all of them closed—bedrooms and bathrooms, I figured—but the other side led directly to an anteroom or seating area, which in turn led to the master bedroom suite. Some residence. The anteroom was as big as half my house. I nosed around quickly and spotted the walk-in closets, discovering that only one of them was being used. I looked into the master bathroom: no makeup, no creams, only one vanity with a toothbrush on it. I opened the door to the medicine cabinet and the only things in there were some shaving materials, some mouthwash, and some ibuprofen. Okay, it looked like Nazarov was single. I was starting to feel that if the plans I'd found weren't put under that credenza by someone else, they belonged to him.

I didn't feel good about what I was doing. Yes, peoples' business is peoples' business, but the way the world is these days, I know that there are a lot of crazy-assed lone wolves out there. Having been to places that show off the worst of what mankind has to offer, I couldn't just walk past this. What if he was one of these lone wolves? What if the office I was working on wasn't a home office for some rich software expert, but a control center for a terrorist cell? Does a home office need data lines, for Christ's sake?

As long as I was snooping, I thought I'd take a look around the rest of the house and I found my way to the basement level, which was set up like a huge recreation area with a bar, a pool table, a huge home theater room, and an exercise area. Okay, nothing looked overly strange down here either, I thought to myself as I walked around, except that I had to chuckle at the weight bench that was set up with a couple of hundred pounds of weights and another hand barbell set up with fifty pounds of weight. Nazarov certainly weighed less than what was set up on the weight bench, and I hefted the hand barbell and knew Nazarov probably couldn't do a single rep with it. I wondered who else used that exercise room.

I went back up to the main level and made up my mind. No one knew I had the envelope, and I gathered up all my stuff and I took it with me. I needed to know more about these plans.

Chapter 2... The Blood Smudge

_Tuesday, April 15_ th **, 6 p.m.** "Hi honey."

It was the wife, home from work. Her name is Lisa. "Hi sweetie. I made a salad like you asked."

She dropped a grocery bag on the counter and said, "Would you mind grabbing the other two bags out of the car while I get the sauce going? Rachel has to be back at the school by seven."

Rachel is our daughter and she had the final performance of her high school play that night. We had already seen the first four. "No problem," I said, and I fetched the remaining two bags, catching a whiff of the freshly cut grass I'd just mowed. I'd learned to appreciate such mundane moments as sometimes the old schnozz didn't pick up on things like that due to my ongoing leakage issue. Lisa was wrestling with a jar of pasta sauce as I set the other two bags on the counter.

"Can you open this?" she asked as she slid the jar toward me and pulled some garlic bread from one of the bags.

I noticed that she gave me the once over as I opened the jar. Rather than waiting for the inevitable question to come, I pronounced, "None today. Everything was fine." I tried to say it in as patient a tone as I could muster. She didn't say anything as she poured the sauce, but I could smell the rubber burning. "What?" I said testily even though she was playing nice.

"Blackouts and amnesia are not things you should ignore," she shot back, her palms down on the counter.

That was her fighting pose. She was right, of course, and I was worried about it, but I just didn't feel like getting into it. I kept my voice even. "You're right, but let's not talk about this tonight in front of Rachel. She needs to concentrate on her performance."

It only worked to a point. "Okay," she said, "but we're going to talk about this sooner rather than later." Lisa is five-foot-one and weighs a hundred and ten pounds with a rock in her pocket, but she could be scarier than a bucket of rattlesnakes when she wanted to be. She looked at me and cut the garlic bread in half like she was sawing a two-by-four.

What she was referring to was the fact that I'd had some sort of blank moment the week before. I don't know if it was a seizure—a word often associated with traumatic brain injury—or an offshoot of the amnesia thing where I couldn't remember her name, but I hadn't called the VA to see if they wanted to see me, or schedule another MRI, or do some other piece-of-shit test of which I was beginning to think was a total waste of time. I went over and took her hand and kissed her. She kissed me back so I knew that she was going to let this go for now, but she held the knife up toward me just to let me know it was only a temporary reprieve.

"Am I picking Scotty up from baseball practice, or is he getting a ride with the Wilsons?" I asked. Son Scotty was two years younger than Rachel, and was playing second base on the JV baseball team.

"We don't need to worry about him. He figured we'd be going to the play again so he's catching a ride with Jared. Are you going to the play, by the way?" Lisa asked.

I replied, "Do you think Rachel would mind if I missed this one? I think I got the idea with the other four performances."

"She's fine with that, but I think there's some sort of party at the school afterwards and I'm pretty sure she wants to go. Are you okay with that?"

"Is that Wahler kid going to be there?"

"I think that's why she wants to go, Jake. Hello?"

"Are you going to be there?"

"Yes."

"Then make sure that meathead keeps his paws off her."

Lisa made a face. "So you'll make sure Scotty does his homework and stays off the video games?"

"Roger that, boss. I'm on it."

"Is there a ballgame on tonight?"

"I suppose," I said. "But I've got some plans I need to review before tomorrow."

* * * * *

I got Scotty fed and cleaned up the dishes and made sure he at least made an attempt at his homework before I went out to my truck and retrieved the envelope. I poked my head into Scotty's room and said, "I'll be in the shop for a while if you need me, okay?"

"Do you know anything about English literature?" he asked.

"Only that it's supposed to be in English." It didn't look like the book he was reading had a lot of laughs in it.

"Then I won't be needing you," he confirmed.

I made a point of telling him where I'd be because my workshop is in our garage, which is detached from the house. We live in a semi-rural part of Montgomery County in Maryland in a little place called Dickerson which is off the beaten track from the Washington Beltway and the I-270 corridor where most of the almost million people of Montgomery County live. We live in what used to be the main house of an old family farm and we have some additional buildings on the property, including a pretty good sized old barn that we plan on rebuilding someday, and the garage, which used to be a blacksmith shop back in the day and is now my workshop. The shop is my sanctuary, and the kids could run go-cart races inside the house and I'd never know it.

I got the envelope from my truck and went to the shop, illuminating one of two drafting tables I have in there. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the folded up papers from the envelope and spread them on the drafting table, leaving them stacked just as they came out. Unconsciously—I guess—my eyes didn't converge on them initially as they acted like an out-of-focus camera lens. I looked away into the darkness beyond the architect's lamp that suddenly seemed as bright as a welding spark, and debated if it was wise for me to do what I was about to do. Peoples' business is peoples' business, and I was particularly sensitive to the notion of not sticking my nose where it didn't belong. I'd fought and killed for the freedom we enjoyed, and I knew that I'd be pretty pissed off if the reverse were true someone tried to monitor my sense of right or wrong. But then I thought again: what if this was some nutcase? What if this was someone trying to take away the very freedom I'd just contemplated? If I was one of those people who knew a terrorist was in our midst, and, worse yet, if I knew this terrorist was planning on blowing up the Lincoln Memorial or something and I did nothing about it, how would I feel then, huh? No, I could live with the guilt of being a busy-body, but I couldn't live with the guilt of people dying because I got hung up on a point of libertarian political correctness. I'm not big on political correctness. I believe there is definitely a right way and a wrong way of doing things, and if you don't like my way, well, I guess you can just go screw yourself. As such, the right way of handling this was to make sure it wasn't a situation where people were going to get hurt, regardless of how I came across the information or whose right of privacy I might have impinged upon.

Okay, I sucked down my apprehension and focused on the page in front of me. It was certainly official-looking, signed and sealed as they say in the construction trade. As soon as I started reading I began absorbing terms I thought I'd heard before. As a Ranger, my main training was as part of the 75th Ranger Regiment which was proficient in airborne light infantry combat. We specialized in rapid deployment missions such as airfield seizures, combat search and rescue, special reconnaissance and intelligence gathering, hostage recovery, or basically anything, anywhere that involved quick strike, close combat special operations. The term _special operations_ meant we played keepsees. A lot of those missions involved blasting our way in or out of parties we weren't invited to. That meant us grunts, as we were called, got to know a lot about various types of demolition materials, procedures, and operations, as well as chemical and biological ordnance and operations. I was one of those guys.

One of the terms on the page that rang a bell with me was _W54_. That was because back in 2004, two years before my TBI injury, Congress repealed parts of the _National Defense Authorization Act_ of 1994. Back then, the world was all peaches and cream compared to the terrorist cluster-fuck it was in 2004. One of the things this act did in '94 was to stop the development of nuclear weapons with a yield of less than five kilotons. The 2004 version of the act repealed this ban. The W54 was one of these weapons. It had been in development and tested for decades, and as soon as the Army got the nod it resumed training on how to deploy it. Four distinct models and delivery methods were designed and I was trained in one of these methods. One of the versions of the W54 weighed 50.6 pounds and measured about 11 inches by 16 inches, and it could destroy a two to four block area with an estimated yield of approximately ten to twenty tons of TNT. This was scary shit in anyone's hands seeing as you could carry the thing in a backpack, and indeed it came to be called the _Backpack Nuke_. In the wrong hands it was even scarier, and it could be carried, launched, or put into a warhead. This is what I was looking at on my architect's table.

* * * * *

My wife radar was going off and I knew Lisa and Rachel would be rolling up the driveway at any time. I looked at my watch and noticed that it was going on ten o'clock. I guess I'd gotten a little carried away with the plans and I knew Lisa would kick my butt if she knew that I hadn't checked on Scotty the whole night. I folded up the pages exactly as they'd been before and carefully put them back into the envelope, then I hustled back across the yard, envelope in hand, and I put it on top of the refrigerator. I went upstairs and knocked on Scotty's bedroom door.

"How'd you do with that homework?" I asked, trying to sound interested.

"It was all right," Scotty replied, not even looking up. "It would be a lot more interesting if there weren't so many _thee_ s and _thou_ s and _thereafter_ s to go through."

"Do you need any help?"

Scotty started laughing. "Nice try, Dad, but I don't think _Romeo and Juliet_ is your thing either."

I kind of shivered and said, "Oh, man. Really?"

"Really," said Scotty. "Like anyone is ever going to use this stuff in real life."

I knew exactly what he meant, but I tried to think of something fatherly to say. "It's not so much about that as it is exposing you to different subjects. You'd be surprised at what kids get interested in and end up studying later on." I thought that sounded pretty good.

"I guess," said Scotty. "But if it's just for interest, then why do we have to get graded on it?"

Oops. I was already over my head and now into Lisa territory. "Getting graded and evaluated is a part of life, kid. Get used to it."

"So you were evaluated and everything when you were in the army?"

I didn't talk to the kids much about my days as a Ranger—too much real world for them, Lisa and I both thought. They both knew about it, however, and it came up occasionally usually at the most inopportune moments, like now. "Every step of the way, son, on everything I ever did."

"You never went to college, did you Dad?"

"Did we just switch gears?"

"Sort of, I guess, but I can't believe I have to know this stuff in order to go to college."

"I almost went," I said, answering Scotty's question. "I knew I didn't want to be a grunt my whole life, and I knew that as a four-tour combat veteran I had a chance to go West Point if I got the right recommendations, so I studied real hard and was accepted as a prior-service cadet. Never went, though."

"Why not?"

"This," I said, tapping my head. "My injury prevented me from being able to participate in cadet basic training."

"But you were already in the army, why did you have to go through basic training? Didn't you already do that to become a Ranger?"

"No exceptions," I said. "Everyone who wants to go to West Point goes through it. There's that evaluation thing again."

"But you knew all that stuff, didn't you?"

"No, not really. West Point is a college, in many ways just like any other college. I would have had to study math, and probably English, and writing, and a lot of the subjects you're studying right now but on a higher level. See, some of what you're studying really is important."

"Yeah, right. When was the last time anyone used something from _Romeo and Juliet_ on the battlefield?"

I heard Lisa and Rachel come in which saved me from further embarrassment in dealing with my son's logic. "How'd it go?" I called when they both passed by Scotty's bedroom.

Stepping in, Rachel said, "It was great, Dad. We got another standing ovation."

She was beaming. "And how was the party?"

"It was okay, but I'm not going to see Jimmy Wahler anymore." She waited the appropriate amount of time and added, "I know you're all broken up by that."

And I was. Not. "Why not?" I asked.

"Because he started drooling all over Cassandra Middlebrook before I even got to the party. It was gross, Dad. He's such a worm."

I looked at Lisa and tried not to smile, then I pulled Rachel to me and gave her a hug so she wouldn't have to see my face. "It'll be okay, sweetheart. There's plenty of fish in the ocean." I looked at Lisa again and actually did smile, but her expression convinced me to stop.

"Time for bed, both of you," said Lisa. "Five-thirty in the morning comes awfully early."

I gave Rachel a kiss and tapped Scotty on the head and headed back to the kitchen to take my meds. A couple of minutes later Lisa came in, sat down next to me at the kitchen table and said, "Okay, what's wrong?"

"What makes you think anything is wrong?"

"Don't play with me, Jake."

I debated whether to tell what I'd been doing all night or make something up, but I never thought that lying to my best friend was a good idea unless is was to protect her from something. This didn't fall into that category, however. Besides, she could always tell when I was dancing around the truth. "I think I saw something at work today that I wasn't supposed to see."

"What was it this time? One of your customers messing around on his wife, or the wife messing around with the pool guy?"

"No, nothing like that. This might be something really serious." She wasn't trying to nag me, I could tell, but Lisa wasn't one to back away from something that she thought was important, hence her insistence earlier in the evening that we were going to talk about my latest TBI-related issues.

"What was it?" she asked, pressing on. "Is it something I can help with?"

"Only by giving me some advice maybe." I didn't often ask for that and that stiffened her up, all right.

"What is it, Jake?"

"Here, I'll show you." I got up and took the envelope from on top of the refrigerator, pulling out the sheets and unfolding them carefully on the kitchen table. I turned on the light over the table and let her take her time looking at the first drawing. Then I slowly turned it over and let her look at the second one, and did the same with the third. I looked at her face each time, but I could tell nothing was registering with her.

She looked at me as I was about to flip to the fourth sheet and asked, "What am I looking at, Jake?"

I said, "These are blueprints for a W54 miniaturized nuclear device."

"Nuclear device—as in nuclear bomb?"

"Exactly. This one is small enough to be carried in a backpack or in a suitcase."

The implications weren't lost on her. "Where did you get these?" she asked kind of seriously, and I told her.

"They just sort of fell out of some furniture I was moving. I mean, they were right there." I could see her protective instinct kick in like a wave coming over her.

"Jake, does anyone know you have these? Does anyone know these drawings are here, _in this house?"_

"I don't think so," I said. "I was alone when I found them." It was the right answer but it didn't do much to ease her sudden anxiety.

"What are you going to do with them?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me," I said.

* * * * *

I was back at the Nazarov house the next morning nice and early and I punched the passcode he gave me into the keypad that controlled one of the two garage doors. I stood there for a second and thought about that very act. Why would Nazarov give me the passcode in and out of his house and leave me there to do work by myself if he was hiding plans to make a nuclear device? It made no sense. Maybe the drawings weren't his. Maybe he didn't even know they were there. I began to doubt my thoughts from the night before.

I noticed immediately that there were four cars in the garage, meaning that Nazarov was home. The lights in the large foyer were turned off as were the ones in the kitchen, so I assumed that Nazarov was still in bed and that was fine with me. Carrying the two containers of paint I'd purchased the day before, I went directly to the office area where I'd been working. I noted immediately that the furniture I'd moved the night before was still in the same place, so I wondered if the IT guys had shown up to install the additional cable as Nazarov had said. It took me a minute but I figured out that someone had indeed been there because I could see one of the wall plates missing and some cable dangling from the opening. I wondered why these IT people, whoever they were, were working at night, then I figured it was probably a couple guys making a few bucks on the side away from their full time gigs. I felt relieved in a way because now I couldn't be the only suspect if Nazarov was aware of the drawings and had discovered they were missing.

Speaking of the drawings, I'd brought them back and left them locked in my truck until I got the lay of the land to be able to put them back where I'd found them. What no one except me knew, however, including Lisa, was that I'd used my smart phone to take a picture of each of the five sheets inside the envelope. I simply wasn't about to let this lie until I did some investigating with a couple of buddies of mine, or until I somehow came to feel more certain that we did not have a murdering terrorist in our midst. Call me crazy, tell me I should be minding my own business, but I just couldn't walk away from the situation like nothing ever happened.

I put the paint down and took a few minutes to make sure the walls were ready to be painted before I went back out to the truck to get my stepladder and a drop cloth, making a point of wrapping the envelope in the drop cloth before I went back inside. I propped the stepladder against the wall and turned to flip on the lights and nearly jumped out of my shoes. Nazarov was right behind me standing in the doorway, and I could literally feel the pressure shoot up inside my sinuses. "Uh, hello Mister Nazarov. Geez, you scared the hell out of me sneaking up on me like that."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to. I thought I heard the garage door open and I wanted to make sure it was you."

"It's me all right. I plan on painting the walls first and then the trim around the windows and doors after that. I figure I'll be done by two or three this afternoon if that's okay with you." I turned away and felt myself squeezing the crap out of the drop cloth that was under my arm.

"No problem," said Nazarov. "I'll be in and out all day."

I gave him a once over. If he suspected something he was covering it up pretty well.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

Clearly I was the one who was not good at covering things up. "Uh, no, not at all. You should be able to put this furniture back in place as soon as the paint dries."

"Very good," said Nazarov. "If you're still around at the end of the day maybe you can help me get it back in place. I'll throw in an extra hundred for you if you can do that."

Normally I would have jumped at the chance to make an extra hundred bucks for ten minutes work but I said, "I'll have to get back to you on that. I was going to do a couple of estimates after I was done here today, but maybe I can move them to another time."

"No problem," said Nazarov as he turned to leave. "Whatever you can do."

This wasn't going as I thought it would, which was good in one way, but bad in another. Someone out there had put plans to make a miniaturized nuclear device under the credenza I was standing next to, and the fact that it might not have been Nazarov didn't necessarily make me feel any better. Radiation from a single backpack nuke like one from those drawings could take out tens of thousands of people if it went off in a place like Times Square, even more if someone set it off at a place like the Super Bowl or the Indianapolis 500 or something. It could take out the U.S. Capitol and everyone in it, or the White House, or the United Nations. The list of potential terrorist targets was endless, as was the misery that came with such an act. No, I needed to know where those drawings came from.

"Mister Nazarov," I called before he got too far away.

He turned, suddenly eyeing me with a dull glare.

"This furniture you want moved. Do you mind if I asked you where you got it? I mean, what store you bought it from?"

"Not at all. Why do you ask?" His dull glare turned into something else.

"Uh, it got me thinking that I should really re-do my own office and that maybe I should check out what's available. This looks like pretty good stuff."

Nazarov stood there in the shadowed hallway and I suddenly felt as if I'd just been x-rayed. He took a step toward me so that his eyes were no longer like dots of glowing lava. Why, I'm not sure. He could have answered me from where he was standing in the hallway, but it seemed as if he was trying to get a better angle on me for some reason. He made a move with his right arm so that I thought he was going to reach into the small of his back, but he didn't. "I don't know where we got it," he said in total monotone. "My office manager purchased it for me a couple of years ago and it's been in our office in Silver Spring up until now."

"Naturally," I said. "I should have known this would be part of your business expenses."

"Would you like me to find out where she ordered it from, Mister Blackwell? It would be no problem to look up the purchase order."

The look on Nazarov's face and the _Mister Blackwell_ crack told me I needed to end that conversation before I outsmarted myself and did something really stupid. "Of course not, Mister Nazarov. Don't bother. I was just wondering," I said. Right. Wondering about a lot of things.

Nazarov dropped a sneer on me and turned to move off a second time. "Mister Nazarov," I called after him again.

He turned and smiled now. "Yes, _Jake_."

I pulled the envelope out from under my arm and held it out toward him. "I found this lying on the floor underneath the credenza this morning when I came in. I guess the IT guys must have dropped it. Sorry," I added. "I cut my finger last night and I got a little blood smudge on it." I showed him my bandaged finger and pointed to the smudge on the envelope.

Nazarov went to take it from me but I must have been a little slow on the release so that he looked up at me and our eyes locked uncomfortably. I let go and tried what must have been the worst fake smile ever attempted by a human being—ever.

He said, "Thank you," and then turned and left, and I never saw him again for the rest of the day. If I was on trial and he was on the jury, I'm sure he would have voted guilty.

Chapter 3... The VFW

_Thursday, April 17_ th _, 7:00 p.m._ As the crow flies the nearest VFW post to where I live in Dickerson is located in Leesburg, but I'm not a crow. In order to get there I'd have to go all the way to Point of Rocks to cross the Potomac on the old I-beam bridge there and come back down on the other side of the river just as far. Either that or pony up eight bucks and take White's Ferry near Poolesville, which is almost as far from where I live as Pont of Rocks. And besides, Leesburg is Virginia. I'm a Maryland boy born and raised, so the post of which I'm a member is Post 5633 located on MacArthur Boulevard in Potomac. We meet every third Thursday of the month and it just so happened that this whole thing with Nazarov took place the first three days of that week. I wanted to attend the regular monthly meeting where I knew Tiny Rivera would be sitting in his regular seat right off the center aisle, second row from the front, with his big arms folded over his even bigger gut. Tiny liked to eat, and that was okay; he deserved the pleasure it brought him.

I don't always go to the Thursday meeting, depending on where my work takes me, but I try to stop in to the post bar now and then for a couple of brews if I don't have anything pressing on me at home. I need the comradery, you see, which I think is more like therapy. I grabbed a Bud Light and moseyed into the musty-smelling club room just as the meeting was starting. Harry Osborne was the post commander and he dispensed with the minutes and the other formalities so that the bulk of the time could be devoted to the main topic of the evening. At this meeting it was a discussion of who the VFW would recognize as its three teachers of the year from the elementary, middle school, and high school levels _"... for their outstanding commitment to teach Americanism and instill patriotism in their students."_ It was a lively discussion, and sitting there listening to these guys—and two women, by the way—talk about something you don't hear much about in this age of political correctness where the term _patriotism_ is almost a dirty word, it brought tears to my eyes.

I caught Tiny's eye as the meeting was ending and jagged my head toward the bar. Tiny gave me a wave and I went in and ordered two more beers and got myself a couple of pickled eggs and some saltines because it was well past eight o'clock and I hadn't eaten dinner yet.

"I see you're going into methane production," Tiny chimed as he squeezed into the booth opposite me. At five-eleven and not an ounce less than two-fifty, that was an accomplishment for Tiny. He grabbed his bottle and clinked mine cheerfully. "Long time no see, Army. The old lady got you on lock down?"

"Naw, just been busy trying to make a living and dealing with the kids and all. Now that they're both in high school it seems like we got something going on with one of them almost every night."

"Been there, done that," he said. "Glad those days are behind me, in a way."

Tiny was older than me, in his sixties now, but we'd become good friends and we'd caught a quite few smallmouths out of the upper Potomac over the years. He was someone I could talk to, not that I'm much of a talker, but he was always a good listener and sometimes there were things I didn't feel comfortable sharing with the wife. That, plus he never passed judgement. One of the older guys at the hall now, he'd done two tours in Vietnam as a Marine helicopter pilot as part of the 1st Marine Aircraft Wing flying Huey gunships in and out of hot zones in 1968 and 1969. Talk about your balls of steel. Can you imagine flying into the teeth of enemy fire and hovering there while enemy soldiers made a target of you and your men? Well, that's exactly what Tiny did over 168 combat assaults and rescue missions, and the Silver Star, the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Purple Heart, and the Navy Commendation Medal were only _part_ of the medals and commendations he'd received. I don't think I could do that, flying a Huey, that is. As a Ranger with a gun in my hand, I always felt I had the opportunity to defend myself. For Tiny, the only thing between him and eternity was a piece of Plexiglas.

"I guess it just wasn't my time," Tiny always said, and we all knew what he meant, for there was no rhyme or reason as to why some men came back and others didn't. That belief in fatalism kept guys going, and while some considered it luck, Tiny didn't. He was paying for it now, he said, dealing with the significant effects of his PTSD which he said was getting worse as he was getting older. When Tiny missed a Thursday VFW meeting, we all knew why.

"I got your voicemail message," he said when we moved past the small talk. He swigged his beer and gave me a minute, and I could tell he was letting me formulate my thoughts.

I said, "What would you do if you came across something that was none of your business, but you knew could be dangerous?" I held his eyes with mine.

"What kind of dangerous are we talking about?" he asked. "In this day and age people think losing your cell phone is dangerous."

"The worst kind," I replied. "In degrees of dangerous that are beyond anything you might imagine, even after everything you've been through."

Tiny put down his beer and looked into the middle of the table. "Okay, you got my attention. I assume it's something you don't want to tell the world about."

"Not necessarily, but not until I determine in my own mind that I'm doing the right thing."

Tiny focused back on the original question. "I know how you think, Army. When you say the worst kind of dangerous, I assume you're talking about something that affects a lot of innocent people."

"It could," I said as I paused. The bar at the VFW was comprised of only a few booths and a dozen stools strung along the rail, and I looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to us. I leaned in to the middle of the table and whispered, "I've got something to show you if you're interested."

"I don't know if I'm interested or not," said Tiny, "but I know you wouldn't go to all this trouble unless you thought it was important."

"You're right, I wouldn't. So you'll take a look?"

"Jesus, Army. Why do I get the feeling you're about to ruin my day?"

I took out my cell phone and pulled up the photos of the drawings I found in Nazarov's house. I pressed my fingers on the first drawing and enlarged it before I handed the phone to Tiny. "Keep this to yourself," I said ominously.

Tiny took the phone but looked at me instead of the screen.

"Stop being so dramatic and just take a look," I said impatiently.

"You're the one being dramatic," he shot back as he took out his glasses and finally looked at the phone. "What am I looking at?"

"Schematics," I said. I wanted him to get it, but he didn't.

"Schematics of what?" He turned the phone sideways and I reached over and enlarged the photo some more.

"Go to the next photo," I said, and I waited patiently for him to swipe the screen. He did, and I watched his eyes. I stayed glued to them, feeling myself being absorbed by them, sucked in like a cloud of smoke being sucked through a funnel. His iris surrounded me as I passed by it, entering the black hole at its middle so that I knew I'd be part of that blackness forever if I was drawn into it. I was going, however, powerless to stop from being swept into the darkness for an eternity. I was going, I was going, _I was going...._

"Jake! Jake, are you all right?"

"Maybe we should call 911."

I felt someone holding my hand. I tried to focus, but I kept walking the edge between consciousness and unconsciousness. Trying to orient myself, I realized that I was on my back and that I was looking up at half a dozen faces as they were looking down at me.

"Let's get him to his feet," someone said.

"Hold it!" someone else called loudly. "And don't go pulling on him until we're sure that he's fully conscious." The same person that had issued that command knelt down next to me and pulled up on my eyelids. As the face came into focus I realized I was looking up at Tiny Rivera. "Your pupils are still dilated. Are you okay, Jake?"

"Tiny," I said. "What the hell...."

"Easy now," he said. "Take your time. Can you tell me if you feel dizzy at all?"

Dizzy? No, I didn't feel dizzy. What was I doing down on the floor? Why were all these people around me? I shook my head and rasped out a weak, "No."

"No, you don't feel dizzy?"

I nodded.

"Would you like some water? Would you like to sit up?"

I nodded again and I felt several hands pulling me up from my prone position.

"Slowly," said Tiny. "We don't want that blood rushing around anywhere until we're sure he can handle it."

"Should I call 911?" someone asked, a woman's voice.

"No," I called forcefully. "I don't want anyone.... I don't want any of that." I realized now why Tiny Rivera was there. I was at the VFW hall. The photos! I shook my head and looked around. I pushed the helping hands away. "Tiny? Tiny, where are the.... Where's my cell phone?"

"Easy Jake. I've got it. I've got everything. Do you remember now?"

"The photos?"

"I've got them, Jake. Not to worry, okay?" Tiny turned and addressed the several people who were standing around me. "I've got this folks. Just help me get him back into the booth and I'll make sure he gets home all right." A couple of people stepped forward and helped get me from the floor into the booth. "Thanks for your help," said Tiny. He turned back to me and asked, "Do you know where you are?"

"I.... I think so. The pictures, Tiny. Where are the pictures you were looking at?"

"Right here, Jake." He held up my cell phone. "Don't worry, okay? I've been here the whole time and I'm the only one who's seen them besides you."

"The whole time," I said groggily. "What's the whole time? What time is it?"

"It's quarter after ten, Jake. You were gone for a while. About an hour, I'd say."

"Gone? What do you mean, gone? What happened?"

Tiny bent down and looked into my eyes. "You had some sort of blackout, man. Maybe even a seizure of some sort. You were out of it, Army. Has this ever happened to you before?"

"Not that I can remember." It was a lie, and I knew it.

Frenchy the bartender came over with some water. "You okay, Jake?"

"I'm okay, Frenchy. Thanks." I took a big swallow and followed it up with another one. "Did I just pass out, just like that?"

"No, not right away," said Tiny. "You just kind of froze there for a minute and your eyes rolled back into your head, and you just sort of zonked out onto the table."

"How'd I get on the floor?"

"I pulled you out of the booth and put you there once I realized you were going through something. Are you sure something like this hasn't happened before?" Tiny asked again. "This sort of thing could be serious."

I shook my head to clear away any remaining fuzziness. "Once before, a couple of weeks ago with my wife. I thought it was just low blood sugar."

"You don't go down for an hour from low blood sugar, Army. You better have the docs down at the VA take a look under the hood."

The VA and my TBI issues were the last things I wanted to talk about. I took a deep breath and spotted my cell phone sitting on the table. "Did you get a good look at what I wanted you to see?"

Tiny folded his big chunky hands in front of him and repositioned the VFW baseball cap he'd been wearing the whole time. Barely above a whisper, he croaked, "Where did those pictures come from, Army?"

Clearly, they'd rung a bell with him too. Rather than answer, I shot back, "Do you know what you were looking at?" Tiny was three months away from retirement from the state highway department where he worked as a machinist. He was used to looking at plans, blueprints, and schematics. It was one of the reasons why I wanted him specifically to look at those images.

He said, "I saw enough to think I know. Is it what I think it is?"

I matched Tiny's posture and leaned in toward him. "If you're thinking it's a nuclear bomb, I think you're correct. It you're thinking it's a nuclear backpack bomb, you'd be even more correct."

Tiny reeled back in the booth. "Oh, _shit,_ " he said. "Now I know what's got you all knotted up. Do you think someone is making this thing?"

"It's already been made, Tiny. It's one of ours. We made thousands of these things in various versions over about a twenty-year period."

Knowing exactly how the military worked, Tiny immediately absorbed the enormity of my last statement. "So this is no hypothetical," he said. "That means it's been developed and tested six ways from Sunday."

"That's right," I said. "And how hard do you think it would be to make with today's technology?"

Tiny scoffed. "All you'd need are a few programmable machines and you could make it in your basement." Tiny looked at me. "If they made more than one they could take out any number of targets." He intensified his stare. "And they could do it all at once."

"How hard would it be to get the materials?"

"Are you kidding? There's nothing in that thing you couldn't buy from any industrial supplier except for the fissionable material.... And I'm sure that some way, somehow, all that would take is money."

I started to say something else when my cell phone rang in my hand. It was the wife. "Hi honey... No, I'm okay, the meeting ran long and I'm sitting here having a beer with Tiny... Yes, that's right, I did...." There was a long pause. "Yes, I'll be home soon... Tiny says hello."

"You did... what?" Tiny asked, having detected my change in tone when I said it to Lisa.

"Showed you the plans," I replied. "Lisa knows about them too." I paused. Hoping for guidance, I went on, "Do you think I should tell someone about this?"

"If you mean someone in law enforcement, that depends," said Tiny. "How did you come across these drawings?" I told him. "I guess that's the magic question," said Tiny. "You could make this Nazarov guy's life pretty miserable if he didn't know about the drawings and had nothing to do with them."

"I thought about that," I responded.

"There's another thing. Do you have any idea if those plans are complete? It's possible that these five schematics are only partial plans."

"I hadn't thought of that," I said.

"Then I'd suggest you find that out before you do anything else."

"Huh. You don't happen to know anyone who'd be able to determine that, would you?"

Tiny said, "Somehow I knew you were going to ask me that."

* * * * *

Given my blackout, there was no way Tiny was going to let me drive home alone so he gave me a ride and Joey Baxter followed us in my truck so that I wouldn't be without transportation the next morning. More importantly for me, however, it meant that I didn't have to call Lisa to come and pick me up, which also meant that I wouldn't have to tell her about this second brain-fart episode in as many weeks. I promised Tiny that I'd make an appointment at the VA and get a "check up from the neck up," as he called it, and I gave half a dozen thank-yous to Joey and made my way into the darkened house. I noted that it was almost eleven-thirty, which meant that it was way past everyone's bedtime since our days all started around five-thirty in the morning. I gave our golden retriever Daisy a pat on the head when she came over to give me a sniff and I drank a glass of cold milk before making my way to the bedroom where Lisa was curled up and facing the other way, it looked like.

"Did you have so much to drink that it took two cars to get you home?" came the question from under the covers.

I have to admit that her question wasn't totally unjustified in that the scenario she'd just described had happened before. I smiled to myself in the darkness, however, and replied, "No, little miss smarty pants. As a matter of fact, I only had one beer the whole night."

Rather than mumbling something snippy and pounding her pillow like she usually did, she popped up in the bed and turned on the lamp. "Then why the two cars?" she asked again, spearing me with a look.

I'd been caught, and even though I hadn't told a lie _yet_ , Lisa was like a bloodhound when it came to me or the kids trying to get around one of her piercing interrogations. I decided to just come out with it, primarily due to the fact that I now realized that what had happened at the VFW hall was pretty scary. If I had blacked out behind the wheel of my truck, not only could it have meant curtains for me, but what if I had one of the kids in the truck with me, or what if I plowed into someone else and did God-knows-what to them? Looking at Lisa was like looking down the barrel of a loaded canon. "I had another episode," I said softly.

I thought she'd go off like a rocket, but instead she said, "Was it like the last one?"

The last one was nothing like this one. The last one was where I'd forgotten her name. I mean, I'd only been married to her for eighteen years and had two kids with her, right? Continuing in my soft tone, I said, "I went dark on this one, sweetheart. Tiny said I was out for almost an hour." I saw her tense up immediately.

"Tomorrow," she said. "I don't care what you have to do or what kind of promises you made to customers, tomorrow we're making an appointment and you're going to see a doctor."

I didn't want to contradict her, but I said, "I doubt we can get an appointment at the VA hospital for someone to see us tomorrow. You know how that place is."

"You just leave that to me," she snapped back. "And get some sleep," she added as she turned away. "God knows one of us might get some tonight."

And that was that, and that was Lisa's way. And I didn't dare cross her.

* * * * *

I don't know how she did it, but Lisa got a next-day appointment at the Fort Meade VA Outpatient Clinic as opposed to the Fort Detrick facility that I usually went to. As with the neurologists I'd seen before, however, the doctor went into a lot of explanations that used so many letters and initials that I thought we were playing Scrabble. He talked about Glasgow Coma Scale, or GCS, which I'd heard about before, and LOC which stood for loss of consciousness, and PTA which stood for post-traumatic amnesia, and how all those initials related to my TBI. To make a long story short, the entire visit frustrated me and frustrated Lisa even more, and we walked out of there with instructions to get some more MRIs and CAT scans back with the doctors who had treated me at Fort Detrick. All that resulted in us thinking this nonsense would go on forever and that we were s-o-l. One thing that did happen was that I got a prescription for a mild anti-seizure medication which the doctor classified as an AED—more initials—but he thought it was safe for me and that I'd be able to drive after a couple of days if I had no reaction to it. In the meantime, I thought I'd do some research on the W54 itself.

The W54 was developed at Los Alamos decades ago when we were in the throes of the Cold War and it is no longer part of our nuclear arsenal. Decades was a long time. Did this mean that the schematics I'd seen were decades old, or did I see a new version of an old weapon? I didn't know if that mattered much, except that I figured that the security around decades-old technology had to be significantly more lax than anything that would be treated as top secret today. As such, who knew how much old but still buildable and still deadly weaponry information could be gotten by anyone just by looking on the internet or in old boxes someplace. I bet there were plenty of terrorists, hate groups, and just plain sick bastards out there who were scouring files that no one cared about anymore just because they were old. That was just my imagination going off, of course, but I'd bet I wasn't wrong. Heck, you could go on the internet right now and pull up files that had been stamped as _Secret Restricted Data_ where those words have been crossed out in magic marker and restamped as _Unclassified._

Not only that, if the drawings I saw were a new version of old technology, I figured it was entirely possible that any new W54 could have a significantly higher capability than the original. Indeed, several versions had been built, including models that could have been delivered from a bazooka-style weapon as an artillery warhead, or as an air-to-air missile, or as a guided bomb. Some of these other models had significantly higher destructive capability than the original W54, which in the initial version had an estimated "yield" comparable to about ten, and up to about twenty, tons of TNT. A ten-ton equivalent device would be up to four times as powerful at the ammonium nitrate bomb that was used in the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995; you do the math with regards to the destruction that a twenty-ton equivalent could do. However, this wasn't the scariest aspect of the weapon.

On the ground, the W54 was considered short-range ordnance only because the delivery systems had a very short range themselves. It was also considered an extreme radiation hazard. With the amount of radiation this thing put out, it meant that the infantry men who fired the launchers to deliver the device would essentially be committing suicide by doing so. Once the thing exploded anyone in the immediate vicinity would die instantly, and anyone within about a 1,400 foot radius probably would die also, but not right away. They would die in the days and weeks thereafter, dying from radiation poisoning, which is a slow and miserable death where people turn into walking ghosts before they go. Nice weapon. I didn't want to think about what several of these things could do, especially in the hands of a bunch of sickos who didn't care that they would die along with the people they set out to murder.

Over the time that the W54 and its variants were an active part of the U.S. arsenal, thousands of units were produced— _thousands_. Now, I know the military, and on the one hand it is an organization known for detail and accuracy so that soldiers actually did things like count and account for things like food trays. Right—food trays. On the other hand, and what is probably little known to the public, is that there are massive amounts of waste and inaccuracies that are unexplainable and to which anyone would ask: _How could that possibly happen?_ The chilling part is that all too often no one really answers that question.

Now sure, I was an Army Ranger, and a good one, but in essence I was always a grunt, a foot soldier, and I never had to deal with questions like that since they were way above my pay grade. But as I sat there in my workshop and thought about the fact that thousands of these things were produced, I had to ask myself if _every single one of them_ had been accounted for when the weapon was retired. And what happened to all that plutonium? Each W54 contained a thirty-pound wad of the stuff, so we're talking about tons and tons of it. Is it possible that some of it went unaccounted for? And where did it go? If someone could actually build a W54—and looking on the internet it didn't look like it would be all that difficult—where would they get the plutonium to arm the thing? It's not like you could carry it around in a shopping bag or store it in a shoebox. And did Nazarov really own a software company? Did the drawings really belong to him? Did he know they were under that credenza?

There were simply too many unanswered question rolling around in my head and I figured I would talk to Tiny again. Maybe he had some connections in the military or elsewhere that we could talk to. Right. Whoever we talked to would probably think we were crazy. But while I didn't think I was crazy, someone clearly was, and doing nothing or saying nothing for me was not an option. I had a couple of days to worry about myself and assure my family that I wasn't going to turn into a vegetable. After that, I thought I might pay another visit to Mister Nazarov.

Chapter 4... Intruders

_Monday, April 21_ st _, 7:00 a.m._ I decided to take another day to be sure the anti-seizure medicine would take hold, so I put off the jobs I had scheduled for Monday. I had two small jobs that day and neither of them were critical; I told the customers that my doctor suggested I take a couple of days off and they understood completely.

"What are you doing?" I asked Lisa when it rolled around to seven-thirty and she was still in her bathrobe and hadn't left for work yet. Lisa is a CPA and worked for an accounting firm in Gaithersburg, which was about a half-hour drive from Dickerson. Overall, I did okay in the paycheck department as a handyman, but she did just as well as a CPA and it provided the steady income that kept us going while I rode the wave that my income could be.

"I'm staying home with you," she answered smartly and clearly reacting to my tone of voice.

"I thought you had a new-client meeting. Weren't those folks from that big tech firm coming in to see you today?" It was a rhetorical question because I knew that was the case. She'd been talking about it for days and I knew she was nervous about it. She was scheduled to meet with the head honchos of a good-sized government contractor that she'd managed to woo away from another accounting firm. It was a big score for her.

"You're more important than any client meeting," she said in that tone, the one that said: _I've made up my mind so don't argue with me_.

And normally I didn't. We'd been in each other's lives since high school and I knew darn well that once she got something in her head... well, forget about it, but this didn't make sense to me. I took her hand, which she tried to pull away because like I knew her, she knew me, and she knew I was going to try and talk her out of it. I was having none of it, and I squeezed her hand so that she couldn't get away. I'm six-one, and she's five-one and a hundred and ten pounds, and I'm tougher than her—most of the time.

"There's nothing you can do, Lisa. There's no way of telling when these blackouts might come, and you know that. You also know you can't be with me twenty-four hours a day. I've taken the medicine and I've cancelled my work for today, and you need to go to work and land that big contract... okay? It's important to you, and it's important to the family too. We've got that college fund to build up." I let go of her hand and I could see the blood going back into her fingers. "I'll text you every hour just to let you know I'm okay," I said, and that seemed to convince her. Twenty minutes later she came back in a snug black skirt and a silky white blouse with just a hint of that perfume I liked that always made me pant like a horny bull.

"How do I look?" she asked, turning on shiny black heels.

"Hot," I said.

"I'm supposed to look businesslike."

"Okay, you look hot businesslike." I pulled her to me and grabbed a handful of ass in the process.

"Stop, you'll wrinkle my blouse," she said, pushing me away. "You're such a lech," she added, but she was smiling. "Text me every hour, okay? Just like you said."

"You got it." She slung her jacket over her shoulder and was out the door, and I watched her tool up the thirty-yard driveway in her Camry out onto Mount Ephraim Road. She was excited, and I was excited for her. "You go girl," I said to myself. I was Lisa's biggest fan.

I took a moment and looked at the sky, noticing that it was dark and gloomy off to the west. Looked and smelled like rain for sure, I thought, thinking further that the two jobs I had scheduled, which were both outside jobs, would have gotten rained out anyway once that gray blanket rolled in off the upper Potomac. Oh well, they'll still be there, I thought, and I went to lower the mini blinds and get myself a cup of coffee before heading to my shop and doing a little more research on the W54. I wanted to know everything there was to know about that weapon before I proceeded with my plan to talk to Tiny again and possibly pay another visit to Mister Nazarov.

I twisted the wand to let what little sun there was shine onto the plants in the window when I saw what looked like a flash of some sort coming from the storage shed about thirty yards from both my house, in which I was standing, and my workshop which was on the other side of my driveway. My storage shed was a good-sized outbuilding where I stored my tractor, my riding mower, my tiller, and other tools and machines that anyone with a few acres of property would need at various times of the year. It being April, I figured maybe Lisa or one of the kids had gone in there and pulled something out for some reason, and now the sun was reflecting off it. I figured I'd better put it away before the rain came, so I put on a pot of coffee and went out the back door to take care of it.

We had several small plots in various places on this back acreage, most of them being for decorative flower gardens which Lisa loved to tend to. A couple of the plots were for herbs, however, you know, parsley, rosemary, and the like, and we had just planted a whole bunch of them. I looked down to see how they were doing and already I could see that the critters had been in there nibbling and scratching around. "Damn them," I said as bent down to pick up a couple of loose stems they hadn't bothered to consume. I went to repack the soil around the parsley where it looked like a raccoon had gotten to it when I caught something out of the corner of my eye, like something had scooted behind the storage shed toward which I was making my way. Maybe I had inadvertently snuck up on that raccoon I'd just thought about, or maybe it was a deer, of which we had plenty that also liked to use our gardens as a salad bar.

I stood up to get a better look at what had just been a blur in my peripheral vision, and I noticed there was nothing outside the storage shed that would have caused the flash I'd just noticed. Okay, it wasn't my imagination, and as I thought about it I remembered that I'd just observed a dark and gloomy sky. There was no sun to reflect off some piece of chrome, and now I saw that there was no piece of chrome for the nonexistent sun to reflect off of. I know what I saw, however. I took a few steps toward the shed to satisfy my curiosity when I heard some rustling and twigs crackling from the bank of lilac bushes behind the shed. Whatever I'd observed was now trampling through there, I guessed. It had to be a deer to make that kind of racket, and I went into a trot to get a look at it and see how big it was. Immediately, I noticed another flash, just like the first one I'd seen from the house. This time, however, it was way off in the distance and well inside the tree line on the other side of the plot where we planted our vegetable garden every year. We owned another three hundred acres back there, land that had been in the family for generations and was originally arable farmland a hundred years ago. Now it was predominantly wooded acreage with some walking and driving paths I maintained with my tractor. We raised a few chickens and a couple of pigs every year, but mainly that land was my private hunting reserve, as it were, and we took quite a few grouse, rabbits, and several deer out of that land every year.

I stopped in my tracks and hit the ground. Habit—habit that never went away. As an Army Ranger, I'd used flash signals plenty of times in Somalia, in Fallujah, and in other places when we were in situations where we couldn't or didn't want to use radio equipment, but it wasn't like what you saw in those old-west movies where the Indians were signaling each other from hilltops. We used laser pens where green meant go and red meant stop. Why was someone on my property using laser signals? I mean, that's what it had to be.

I slithered forward a few yards and positioned myself behind one of the raised flower beds so that I wouldn't be seen by anyone spotting from the woods. I slowly raised my head and peeked over the rock wall of the flower bed and tried to focus on the spot where I'd seen what I now figured was not a flash, but a laser light. By my calculation, that was ninety to a hundred yards away. I didn't see anything until suddenly a whole series of laser signals popped on and off, and I knew instantly that whoever was in those woods was telling whoever had just stomped through my lilac bushes to get the hell out of there. I was tempted to jump up and sprint toward those woods, but (a) I was unarmed, and (b) I didn't know what problems such sudden exertion might cause me relative to my recent blackout problem. I figured it wouldn't be good, and I figured further that Lisa would be pretty pissed off if she came home from work and the kids told her I was dead, or something.

I just sat there and felt myself churning on the inside, and I calculated that the signals had come from about forty yards inside the tree line. That was where the only drivable road that I maintained through those acres made a swing in toward the vegetable garden and then meandered back about a mile where it emptied onto Mount Ephraim Road. On Mount Ephraim Road itself you'd have to know it was there in order to access it, and I purposely kept the mouth of the road covered over pretty well so that no one would be tempted to take a four-wheeler joyride on it. I also kept a double chain strung across the road about ten yards in with a no trespassing sign hanging from it, which if anyone didn't see that chain it would cause some significant damage to whatever vehicle they were using. Whoever was back there on that road knew where they were, and they knew where to gain access off Mount Ephraim Road, and I knew instantly they had done some significant scouting or had used aerial photography to figure that out. Whoever was down there was a pro, but not a good one.

* * * * *

"I think I scared them off," I said to the officer. Dickerson is too small to have its own police department and I had to call over to the Montgomery County police station in Poolesville in order to get an officer to come by and take my report.

"So you never got a look at them?" the officer asked.

"That's correct." He was polite enough, but I could tell that he was having a hard time understanding my motivation. "Listen," I said, "I know there's nothing you can do, but I just wanted to register a police report that someone was trespassing on my property."

I'd waited about a half hour after I saw the series of laser signals and I'd strapped my old double barrel shotgun onto one of our ATVs and went down to where I figured the person with the laser was located. The weather had been dry all week and nothing looked overly disturbed there, and I took the ATV all the way to the access point off Mount Ephraim Road where someone had driven through hubcap-deep mud to get around the chain hanging across the narrow road. Whoever had done that would have needed a four wheel drive vehicle.

The officer—Officer Crosby his name tag read—gave me a once over and glanced at the shotgun that I put back in its regular place while he was standing there. That place was a rack in my workshop that also stored a .22 long rifle, a Remington twelve-gauge automatic, and a .30-06 deer rifle. He didn't say anything about it. "I can register your report, Mister Blackwell, but if there was no damage that's about as far as it's going to go, I'm afraid."

"I understand," I said. "I just want to make sure there's a report on file in case this happens again and something comes of it."

Officer Crosby shrugged and said, "Okay then. I'll write it up for you." He turned to leave and stopped before he got to the door. Turning back, he said, "Nice workshop you have here. What are you, a cabinet maker or something?"

"I work as a handyman," I replied. "But sometimes I do finish work. You know, crown moldings, built-ins, stuff like that."

"You military?" Officer Crosby asked out of the blue.

"Army Ranger, ten years plus," I said. "Until an IED took me out in '06."

"What outfit?"

"75th Regiment, 3rd Battalion, C company," I said.

Officer Crosby gave me a wave and said, "So you were always in the middle of it."

"One way or another."

"I flew Pave Hawks for the Air Force doing medical evacs and pararescue in Afghanistan. Thank you for your service, Mister Blackwell."

"And thank you for yours. I've got an old jarhead friend named Tiny who flew Hueys in 'Nam. You might like to have a beer with him if you ever make it to the VFW post in Potomac. I'm sure you have a lot of stories you could share."

"Thanks but no thanks," said Officer Crosby. "Sometimes there are too many stories."

He turned and left and didn't say anything further, and I texted Lisa that I wasn't dead.

* * * * *

That night I felt okay to drive and I called Tiny to see if I could meet him at the VFW.

Instead of saying yes or no he asked, "What's been happening with you since Thursday night? Did you get yourself checked out?"

"Sort of. I got in to see a neurologist on Friday but he wasn't my regular guy. He gave me a prescription for some anti-seizure medication which I've been taking since then, and I took it easy over the weekend."

"That's hardly a clean bill of health, Army. You're not back to work, are you?"

"No, I moved a couple of jobs and I took today and tomorrow off, and I go in for some more tests with my regular doc on Thursday. I feel fine, Tiny. I'm okay."

"Don't go giving me that shit. You do what the doc says."

"Yeah, okay, I got it, and you're right, and Lisa is right, and I'll take it easy, okay?"

"You better," Tiny warned. "You got young kids to worry about." He paused for a second and said, "What did you want to see me about? I've been working through a couple of connections I have to see if there's someone at the Pentagon we can talk to about those schematics, but I haven't heard back yet."

"The Pentagon?" I questioned. "Really?"

"Hey, I got pull," Tiny said pompously.

That was hardly his style and I knew he was smiling on the other end of the call. "So can you meet me tonight?" I went on, getting back to the reason why I called him.

"I'll tell you what," said Tiny. "We can meet, but I'll come to you. Deal? That way you won't need to be behind the wheel."

Already tired of people treating me like I was an invalid, I said, "Deal."

"Good. I'll bring pizza for the kids."

Later, at the appointed hour the doorbell rang and Tiny came in carrying two pizza boxes, one of which was missing a slice. "Sorry," he said. "It smelled so good I ate it on the way over."

"I think you left some of it on your shirt if you're still hungry," Lisa said as she gave him a hug and got some plates for her and the kids. "Kids, say thank you for the pizza."

"Thank you Mister Tiny," the kids called out in unison.

I grabbed a couple of beers and threw a couple of slices on a plate and Tiny and I headed straight to the workshop.

"What's the matter, Army?" Tiny asked as soon as we got there.

I swigged my beer and said, "What makes you think there's anything the matter?"

"Okay, mister typewriter face, you made a special call to meet me and something is written all over your face, and you should be glad we're not playing poker."

"Typewriter face?"

Tiny waved it away. "Old joke, Army. What's on your mind?"

I looked Tiny in the eye and said, "Someone paid me a little visit today."

Tiny stopped in mid-swig and asked, "Who?"

"Don't know."

Reservedly, Tiny said, "Uh-huh. Is there more?"

"I think they were after the drawings."

"Okay, but I thought you said you gave those back to... whatshisname, the Russian guy."

"Not Russian, I don't think, Uzbek maybe. I saw one of those coffee table books and a couple of magazines in his house that make me think that."

"Then you should watch yourself. That's a tough place to come from, Uzbekistan. They've been stomped on by every empire that's blown through there in the last thousand years and I don't think they've found it amusing. During World War II they fought for the Russians and the Germans both."

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"I read Tom Clancy novels."

"You know how to read?"

"That's cruel, Army. What's this Uzbek guy's name?"

"Nazarov."

"So if you gave the drawing back to him, what makes you think someone came after them here?"

"Just putting two-and-two together. Maybe he found them missing that first night before I brought them back, and he told someone."

"I see where you're going. Someone who wanted their existence to be kept secret."

"Yeah, for obvious reasons. And maybe he didn't say anything about the drawings being returned."

"Your pizza is getting cold," said Tiny, eyeing the slices on my plate.

"You take it," I said. "I think that medicine is making me lose my appetite."

Tiny blew some sawdust off the deck of my table saw and made a dining spot out of it. He pulled up a sawhorse and said, "Let's back up for a second and think this through. We're speculating that there are others involved in this thing, if there is indeed a thing. Not only that, we're assuming that this Zamakov guy—"

"Nazarov."

"Whatever... and these other imaginary dudes are going to use those schematics to construct a portable nuclear bomb." Tiny paused and shoved half a slice of pizza into his yap. Chewing loudly, he continued, "Don't you think if that was true they would have had those schematics someplace a hell of a lot more secure than where you found them? I mean, you said you found them stuck to the underside of a piece of furniture, right? Hell, I did that when I was a kid and didn't want my mom to find some cigarettes I'd snuck into my room."

I hadn't thought of that, and it made sense. "What's your point?" I asked bluntly, getting a little nauseated by the smell of the pizza.

"My point is that he may not have known those drawing were under that piece of furniture to begin with. What did he say when you gave them back?"

"He gave me a look and said thank you. Why would he say thank you if he didn't know what I was giving him?"

"I don't know. What would you say if someone was doing some work in your house and they handed you something they said they'd found there?"

"I guess I'd say thank you."

"There, you see. You said he gave you a look. What kind of look?"

"Like he'd caught me doing something I shouldn't have been doing."

"You're sure about that. It's not something you're building into your own head."

"Jesus, Tiny, I don't know." I shoved the other slice of pizza toward him.

He shoved it back and said, "No thanks, I'm trying to cut back. But you see the point I'm trying to make, right?"

And that's where I had him. "I do see the point, but what I saw this morning on my back property was not my imagination."

Tiny suddenly got very serious and he crossed his thick forearms over his gut. He took a moment, seemingly weighing the seriousness of what I was implying. "You know," he said perfunctorily, "if Nazarov knew you took those drawings before you returned them and he sent someone in to get them back, that's some serious shit there, is what it is. I mean, what were they prepared to do to get them back?"

I just stood there listening.

"On the other hand," Tiny went on, "if Nazarov didn't know anything about the drawings and the people who were on your property were after something else, that's some serious shit too because you don't know what they were after and they could come back when your family is here."

"Thanks for making me feel better. Where do you think I should go with this?"

"Does Lisa know about this morning?"

I wagged my head and said, "Not yet. I was planning on telling her that some people had trespassed on the back acreage, but I was planning on leaving it at that."

"You've got a good woman there, Army, and I think she'd be a helluva lot more effective in protecting herself and those kids than my wife would be. Lisa knows how to shoot, right?"

"She does."

"Good, but maybe she should be a little more aware of who or what those trespassers may have been other than just trespassers. Wouldn't it be better to be overly careful in this situation rather than not?"

That was the answer I was looking for. "You're right," I said. "I'll talk to her tonight."

"What else, Army?" Tiny asked when he saw me pause.

"There's one more scenario," I said to him as I realized my mouth was as dry as a cotton ball and I took the first swig off my beer. "It's the worst case."

"Which is?"

"If Nazarov knew I took those drawings and he did indeed send someone out to get them back...." Tiny held up his hand. "What?" I questioned.

"I didn't leave it out," he said. "I was just waiting to see if you got it. If Nazarov sent someone to get those drawings back and they were here today, they either don't know you returned them and they will be back...." Tiny hesitated dramatically. "... or they don't care that you gave them back. That means they could be after you just for knowing the drawings exist."

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I figured too," I said. "I wish I knew more about this guy Nazarov." Tiny didn't respond.

* * * * *

It was almost nine o'clock when Tiny headed for home that Monday night and Lisa was in checking Rachel's homework and getting her ready for bed. I figured I'd give her a hand and I checked in with Scotty. "Homework done?" I asked, poking my head into his bedroom.

Scotty had earbuds stuck in his ears and he pulled them out as soon as he saw me. He gave me a stare and said, "Is it true, Dad?"

I could tell by the look on his face something was bothering him. I kicked his baseball glove and a couple of balls out of the way and sat down on the bed next to him.

"Mom said you've been having seizures," he said, not waiting for me to answer his question.

"I've had a couple of episodes recently," I said, trying to sound nonchalant, but it didn't work. As a fifteen-year-old, Scotty's hormones were all over the place and it was hard enough for him to get through an entire day without at least one fit of extreme anger or extreme sadness. I could see his lower lip quivering and he looked away, and I knew he didn't want to look weak in front of his dad.

"Is it serious?" he asked, his eyes coming back to mine and pooled with fluid.

"It could be," I said, not pulling any punches. I never felt that dancing around the truth was a good practice with the kids. Sometimes it hurt, but I wanted to make sure they got some experience in handling rejection and disappointment before they were fully grown and unprepared to deal.

"Are you scared?" he asked.

The question caught me completely by surprise. Even as an Army Ranger it was a question that I don't remember anyone ever having asked me. I choked down a lump in my throat that was bigger than the baseballs I'd just kicked across the room. "I think I am," I said to him, being completely honest. "I might need some help dealing with this if I can't figure it out on my own."

For a brief moment, Scotty jumped the fence from boyhood to manhood. "I'll do anything I have to do to make sure you're okay, Dad. Okay? I'll be there if you need me."

Overrun with emotion, and as much for the reason that now it was me who didn't want to look weak, I pulled him to me and hugged him so that he couldn't see my eyes. "I'll get through this," I said to him, surprised at how fragile I felt right then. "Don't worry about it, okay? You concentrate on what you need to do, but I'll know you'll be there to catch me if I fall."

"We'll all be there, Dad. Don't worry about it."

Lisa came in, and seeing us on the bed the way we were knew instantly that something different had just happened. "It smells like a locker room in here," she called. "Scotty, would you pick up your sweat socks and your practice jersey and bring them into the laundry room so I can do a load before I go to bed?"

For once, Scotty did so without being asked six times. "You all right?" she asked when Scotty left the room.

"I am," I said, "but there's something I have to talk to you about."

She looked at me and said, "But it's not about this," she indicated, meaning whatever had just taken place.

"No. It's about my conversation with Tiny."

She gave me a stare that looked exactly like the one Scotty had just given me. "Let's get it over with," she said. "Just let me put up that load of laundry."

I said, "I'll be in the kitchen," but before I headed there I went to our gun safe and pulled out a Heckler & Koch P30 nine millimeter pistol. The gun safe contained several other firearms other than the hunting weapons I kept in the workshop. Besides the P30, other handguns I owned were a pair of old Army Colt 1911 .45 caliber automatics, a Beretta M9, and an H & K MK23. I also had a Colt AR-15 assault rifle and an AK-47 in there. These were all military weapons I'd become familiar with, with the exception of the P30 which was popular as a law enforcement weapon because of its compact size and the fact that it was an ambidextrous weapon. Just about anyone could shoot a P30 accurately, including small people like Lisa, which is why I'd purchased it for her as a birthday present a few years back. Romantic, huh?

She came into the kitchen with a stoic look on her face, which is how she always approached tense situations, which she knew this would be simply by the fact that I'd prepped her for the conversation. She took a look at the P30 and sat down, and her eyes shifted to mine as she waited for me to spill the beans. "Did you get the gig with the government contractor guys this morning?" I asked, trying to ease into it.

"Yeah, we got it," she said, and I knew that normally she would have been a little more chirpy about it, but she said, "If that's what the gun is for, I don't think I'm going to need it."

Her eyes were merciless, stabbing me with their intensity. "We had some trespassers on the back property this morning," I said. She waited. "I don't think it was kid's dirt biking back there like we had before." She waited some more. "I think it may have had something to do with the blueprints to that miniature nuclear device that I showed you last week." Her jaw tightened, and she crossed her arms and turned into a statue. "I think you'd better start carrying this gun around with you until I figure out what's going on."

She sat there until I thought maybe she was the one having a blackout seizure until she looked up and said, "And what about the kids? How are we going to protect them?"

She was pissed, and I couldn't blame her. "I'll figure it out," I said, and I knew I had to find out who'd been on my property. I figured I'd start with my favorite real estate agent, Whitney Valentine.

* * * * *

The next morning, Tuesday, it was particularly tense at breakfast although neither Lisa nor I said much to the kids. They could feel it, though, that I knew, but like most high-school-aged kids they had plenty of texts and Facebook communications from their friends to take their mind off of what was up with Mom and Dad. The uneasiness passed slowly, and they were off to catch the school bus which picked them up right at the end of our driveway due to the rural nature of our community. Lisa kept a watchful eye on them until they actually got on the bus. I thought she was going to drill into me again, as she'd done most of the previous night when we had the discussion about the P30. Truth be told, it hadn't been much of discussion, actually, and after I explained what I'd seen and what I'd found on the back property in more detail, along with my having filed a police report, that conversation ended pretty much with me barking at her, "Just carry the damned gun until I tell you different and give me a chance to figure this out." That went over like a poke in the eye and she just got even more pissed and went to bed.

"I'm sorry about last night," she said. "It just seems like we can't catch a break."

I didn't know what that meant, exactly, but I wasn't about to let her put any more pressure on me than I already felt. "I didn't go looking for this, Lisa, and I didn't do anything wrong. As for the kids, if you want to try and keep them home from school to protect them, you go right ahead. In the meantime, I'm gonna find out who that was back there in those woods and make sure it doesn't happen again."

"It is what it is," she said. "And neither one of those kids would agree to staying home from school in a million years. Do what you need to do, I guess."

Okay, she wasn't a glacier, but she wasn't exactly in wholehearted agreement either. I guess that was as good as it was going to get. She dressed for work and gave me the obligatory kiss on the cheek on the way out, and I knew she'd be stewing the whole day.

My thoughts reverted to the same ones I had the night before when I'd thought about calling Whitney Valentine. If there was anyone in Potomac who knew what was what in that community, it was her. Her cell number was in my phone contacts and I tapped up her number, not thinking about the fact that it was only eight o'clock in the morning. She answered on the first ring, however.

"Hello Jakey," she said in that breathy tone of hers. "I'm normally saying goodbye to men first thing in the morning."

"You can play up that cougar act with other guys, Whitney, but I know better. Why do you do that?"

"Why fight it?" she shot back. "The reputation follows me around anyway. Why not play it to my advantage? What can I do ya' for this fine morning?"

"I'd like to come see you," I said to her. "I'd prefer to be face-to-face."

"When?"

"ASAP," I said, pressing my luck.

"I've got a full day planned, Jakey, but I can see you right now if you can make it."

"I can make it."

"Then c'mon over. You know where I live, don't you?"

"I do."

"Fine, I'll be in the pool doing my laps probably; just let yourself in when you get here. Bring your trunks if you'd like to join me."

"I'll see you in half an hour, Whitney."

"Bye, Jakey. I'll be the one in the bathing suit all wet and slippery."

Okay, I had that visual, I thought as I ended the call, and it stayed with me until I arrived. Whitney's place was on the east side of Potomac, and like many of the homes in the community it was surrounded by tall pines to ensure some privacy from the other houses on the street. The place wasn't one of the over-the-top mansions for which the town was known, but it wasn't shabby either, probably worth a million or more, I figured, and certainly large enough for anyone who lived alone like Whitney did. Her little red Mini Cooper was in the driveway, which was her run-around car, and the car she used to drive clients around was in the garage, I presumed. That one was a creamy-white Land Rover which she could probably use to climb a mountain, or more likely in her case carry pastries back from Dean & DeLuca. I could smell the surrounding pines as I hopped out of my F-150, and I let myself in just as she'd instructed. I made my way to the back patio/pool area, noting the glaring use of pastel colors on everything I passed—on the furniture, on the walls, on the window treatments—girl colors, I called them. I could never live like that. I noted the smell of vanilla as I walked through the place.

I got to the pool area and spotted Whitney doing her exercise laps just as she said she'd be doing, and I plopped myself into a patio chair until she noticed me sitting there. I tried not to stare when she climbed out of the pool and came toward me, and I noted that she made no attempt to cover herself up as she did so. "Hi Jakey," she said as she rubbed a towel through her hair. Her skin was cold and covered with goosebumps, while her nipples stabbed through the fabric of her bathing suit which didn't do much to hide her significantly large and most likely augmented breasts. She knew I was looking and she flashed a dazzlingly white smile as she sat in the chair next to me. Her teeth were perfect.

"Okay, we're face to face. What's got you all wound up, Jakey?"

"You know, my wife hates it that you call me that."

"Yeah, well, if she's like most wives she'd find something else to hate me over if it wasn't that."

"Why? Do most wives think you're after their men?"

"Oh, please," she responded. "Like most of their men are worth going after." She pointed a finger into her mouth and said, "Gag me."

"Maybe you intimidate them," I said. "Ya' think?"

"Are you talking about the wives or the men?"

"Interesting question," I replied. "Both, I guess."

"That's their problem," she said. "I am what I am."

"And what is that?" I asked challengingly.

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at me as if she was trying to guess why I was asking. "I'm a determined woman, Jakey. Not everyone appreciates that." She hesitated. "Do you?"

It was hard not to look at her, especially while she was staring at me like that. I did without pretense, and she let me take it all in. "Sometimes I take what I want," I said, pausing. "But I've found that if I'm too single-minded about things I don't take other people's feelings into account."

"Do other people's feelings matter that much?"

"For me they do. I've never found that being self-centered worked well for me."

"Ooooh," she said, feigning a pained look. "That hurt. I've always thought of it more as being unwavering, and persistent."

"I see," I said. "And what are you after these days, Whitney? It looks like you've got everything you could possibly want." I waved at the surroundings.

She smiled and recrossed her tanned legs. "I could be after a lot of things, you, for instance, but I know you would never come over to the dark side."

I felt my face heat up instantly. "I'm taken, Whitney, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I'm tempted."

She didn't blink an eye at my obviousness. "Ah, so I play the temptress again—the story of my life," she said. "You're a stud, Jakey, and you tempt me too, whether you know it or not."

"You do have a way of going after things, don't you?"

"So tell me what you're after, Jakey, here, today... right now."

She leaned toward me so that her cleavage was all I could see, and she raked a fingernail up my arm. I knew that I could have taken her right then if I was that sort of man, and no one would ever know. I took her hand away from my arm and I felt her go limp so that her hand lingered in mine. I looked up and her eyes were on me, blue, and clear, and penetrating. She knew what she wanted, all right, and I could have been very happy to be the prize in her happy meal. "I'm looking for information on someone," I croaked out as I placed her hand back where it belonged, which was anywhere that didn't touch my skin.

Realizing she wasn't going to snare me today, she paused for a moment and smiled to herself. "What kind of information? I'm just a real estate agent," she said as she went back to toweling her hair.

"Yeah, but you know the background on every piece of property that's sold in this town and I need to know about the owner of a place where I just did some work."

"Well, I do try to be thorough, but just because I know a lot of history about individual properties doesn't mean I know anything about their owners. What piece of property are you talking about?"

"The address is on Meetinghouse Road, but it's not so set back so that you can't see it from the road; circular driveway, cream brick facade, three-column portico entrance. There's a granite fountain out in front."

"Oh yeah. Number 11873. Sold a couple of years ago for somewhere in the neighborhood of $2.4 mil, I think. Sissy Mayhugh had the listing, as I recall."

"You remember the address?" I asked.

"Honey, for the amount of commission money a property like that spins off, you get to know the last time the AC filters were changed. What's so interesting about that one?"

"I was wondering if you know anything about the owner; guy named Nazarov who owns a software company in Silver Spring."

"Nazarov—sounds Russian. Doesn't ring a bell but that doesn't mean we can't find out a little more about him."

"How would we do that?"

"Well, we could start with an online title search. That would give you some basic information that might be helpful. What are you trying to find out?"

"Whatever I can."

Whitney gave me a look. "Are you in some sort of trouble with this guy, Jake?"

I figured I'd answer her honestly and said, "Maybe the less that is said about my reasons the better. Can you still help me?"

She smiled and said, "You know I can't resist you, Jakey. Follow me."

And I did, walking behind her and watching her ass cheeks rising and falling beneath her bathing suit. "Help yourself to some coffee or whatever is in the fridge," she said. "I just want to change out of this bathing suit." I poured myself some OJ and waited in the kitchen until she reappeared in a loose-fitting, open-down-to-there gown of some sort, and it was obvious from her wobbling tits that she was naked underneath. "Let's go to my office," she instructed.

She took a seat at the computer and said, "Give me a minute to get into the public records database." Less than that later, she asked, "Now, the address on the property is 11873 Meetinghouse Road, right?" I did a shrug/nod thing that she took as a yes. "That property was probably built after 1980, wouldn't you think? The online records in Potomac only go back that far. Anything older and we'd have to go to the public records office and research in person."

"I would think so, yes," I said, concurring with her.

"You wouldn't know who sold the property to this guy Nazarov, would you?"

"Not a clue."

She deliberated for a second and said, "Okay, let's try it this way," and she punched the keyboard. "Let's see of the old MLS listing is still available." Moments later she said, "And there it is. Let's see, that would be lot number 407. Now, let's get back to the public records page." She typed away and did a few clicks with the mouse and it wasn't long before she said, " _Voilà_ _. Gosh, was it that long ago?"_

_" What is it?" I asked._

_" Here is a deed transfer from over three years ago that shows the deed and title going from Lou and Wilamina Agnosicki to UIF Enterprises. There's no mention of anyone named Nazarov as taking title to this property, and this looks to be the most recent transfer."_

_" Are you sure?" I asked._

_" Come back here and see for yourself."_

_I went back around but had a hard time focusing on the screen as Whitney once again did her best to entice me by making sure her open-down-to-there gown fell away so that I could see everything there was to see in the land of milk and honey. "Is UIF Enterprises a software company headquartered in Silver Spring?" I asked, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she was killing me._

_She did a Google search on "UIF Enterprises, Silver Spring" and got nothing. She got less than nothing as UIF Enterprises didn't come up on any of the pages. "Looks like you're striking out—_ _again_ _," Whitney said, and I knew she meant. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Jakey?"_

_Okay, I needed to get out of there. "Would you be willing ask around about this guy Nazarov?" I pleaded._

_She was suddenly very serious. "I could, but you haven't told me what's causing you to be so bent out of shape with him."_

_" What if I told you I did some work for him and he owes me money?"_

_" I'd think you were lying, but if that's all you're going to do to me today, I guess I'll just have to go with it. I'll let you know if I hear something."_

_" Thanks Whitney, I owe you one. Oh, and I wouldn't be asking about him by name, you know what I mean? Maybe you could just be inquiring about the property."_

_Whitney stopped being Whitney for a moment and considered my words carefully. "I'll let you know if I hear something," she repeated. "I know you know the way in," she added. "I assume you know the way out."_

_I chuckled. "Yeah, Whitney. I don't need a map to figure that out."_

_" Nice talking to you today, Jakey. I guess I'll see you around."_

_" Right. See you around."_

_Whitney was the only thing I could think about on my way back to Dickerson, and I'm sad to say that the name Lisa didn't pop into my head the whole time. I could have done it with Whitney without the slightest hesitation, and for the life of me I don't know what stopped me._

Chapter 5... Riding With Tiny

_Tuesday, April 22_ nd _, 10:20 a.m._ I took a slight detour and rode by Nazarov's house on the way back from Whitney's place and everything looked buttoned up tight. There were no cars in the driveway and it didn't look like there were any lights on in the house, so I assumed no one was home. I drove up Meetinghouse Road a ways and turned around, stopping about fifty yards short of Nazarov's driveway so that I could see the house and anyone pulling in or out. I sat there for some minutes, taking the time to text Lisa so that she knew I was all right and not having a blackout, and even my hands felt guilty while I tapped in the text for the thoughts I'd had about Whitney. I'd never cheated on Lisa, ever, not in any of the places I'd ever been, and technically I guess I still hadn't cheated on her, but if I was ever in that situation with Whitney again I think it would be a real test of strength.

Sitting there and thinking of Lisa, I wondered if she'd done what I'd told her to do and taken the P30 with her when she'd left for work. Normally my relationship with Lisa is that I never _tell_ her to do anything—and vice versa, mind you—but in this case I didn't want it to be open for discussion. I felt in my bones that stumbling across those W54 schematics was cause for some serious concern, and until I was satisfied in my own mind that I was being overly paranoid, I was going to continue to be careful to the point of obsession. I'd seen what radical militants could do, and would do, and I'd walked past not only entire families that had been tortured and killed for scraps of information, but entire villages and neighborhoods where residents had been lined up and gunned down, or beheaded, or thrown off buildings merely as a scare tactic to others. If I was suddenly involved with any of these crazies, even inadvertently, there was no way I was going to let any members of my family go anywhere without the opportunity to defend themselves.

Both Lisa and I had permits for concealed carry in Maryland, and I made sure she was proficient with her weapon of choice which was the H & K P30. We'd tested half a dozen handguns when we'd purchased it, and although there were a couple of other nine millimeters that had noticeably less recoil than the H & K models, she seemed to like the way it fit her hand and indeed she could handle the shock despite her small frame. As for me, I generally carried one of my old Army .45s or my Beretta M9, which had been my approved Army sidearm for as long as I'd been in the military, and it was the weapon I had in the truck with me outside Nazarov's house. There were some people down at the VFW who didn't care much for the M9, saying it didn't have enough stopping power, or that it required overly precise shot placement to bring down a charging enemy. Yeah, well, precise shot placement wasn't a problem for me, and I wouldn't want to be in front of an M9 in any situation. Just ask any of the thousands of dead militants that made that mistake. I texted Lisa and asked her if she taken the P30 to work with her that morning, and she texted back, _YES!!_ , in capital letters and two exclamation points, which meant she took it, but she wasn't happy about it. Too bad, I thought.

I sat there for another ten minutes until I said to myself aloud, "You could be out here all day, stupid." I really had no specific reason to be there outside of my inherent suspicion about Nazarov, but I wasn't going to prove anything by sitting there for hours, so I decided to go home. I started the truck and rolled by the house again, slowly, not noticing that a car had come up behind me as I moved along at about six miles per hour. Oops, sorry, I thought when the car beeped, and I pulled over to let it pass, noticing the look on the guy's face that clearly said: _jackass!_ I looked in my side-view mirror now before pulling back out onto Meetinghouse Road and that's when I noticed another vehicle sitting on the side of the road behind me some distance back. Meetinghouse Road is only two lanes and not very wide, so any car pulled off to the side could almost have its right side wheels in the roadside ditch while its left side wheels would still be on the pavement and other cars would have to swing around it. That's how this car was positioned. Huh, I thought, and I reached into the center console and shoved a fifteen-shot magazine into the M9 and clicked the safety to the off position. It was only nine-thirty in the morning and I wondered how long that car had been following me.

* * * * *

That was two occurrences in two days of strangers turning up in my environment. Some people would argue that I had no proof that anyone was stalking me, but I learned long ago that if you wanted to stay alive you trusted your instincts and you didn't believe in coincidence. For me, it was like carrying a ticking time bomb around without knowing how much time was left on the clock. The question was: what was I going to do about it? That was a question I couldn't answer yet, but when I got home I made sure both of my .45s, and my AR-15 were fully loaded, and I took all of the weapons out of my gun safe and put them on top of the kitchen cabinets where they would be hidden from view and no one could stumble across them. The Beretta M9? I made sure that was in the same room with me. I also took out a pair of Bushnell high-powered binoculars to make sure they would be handy. If anyone was planning on throwing a surprise party, they would be the ones who would be surprised, not me. Yeah, as in surprised to death.

It was approaching lunch time on Tuesday when I got done making sure everything was where I wanted it to be. I was still supposed to be on restricted handyman duty and I took a few moments to take inventory of how I felt. I tried to stay aware of any physical changes I might be experiencing, and without sounding like the macho ass that my wife accused me of being, I gotta say that I felt pretty good. I hadn't been eating much and even though a beer or two was not prohibited despite my taking the anti-seizure medication, I had only drank one or two over the last couple of days and I felt quite alert. I wondered how I could have had those memory and blackout episodes, and it kind of scared me to think I could feel just fine and have something like that happen right out of the blue like that. Hopefully my regular neurologist would be able to explain things when I went in for more tests on Thursday, but somehow I doubted it. I was about to make myself a pb&j when the phone rang. "Hello." It was Tiny.

"I got a call from my buddy at the Pentagon," he said. "He wants to see us right away."

"He... who... what?"

"I told you I had connections. Can you make it tomorrow?"

"Tiny, take it down a thousand and give it to me slower."

"C'mon, Army, get with it. We're talking Brigadier General Hastings R. McCloskey. I flew with his dad in 'Nam."

"Okay."

"Hattie is part of the Joint Staff directorates. I remember the little twerp when he was learning how to throw a curve ball. He's now Vice Director for Intelligence, J2."

"Ooh," I said. "That's up there."

"You're damned right that's up there. I pulled in a couple of chits with his old man and he convinced Hattie to see us."

"Just like that," I said skeptically, assuming that anyone on the staff of the Joint Chiefs probably had a pretty full schedule and had better things to do than meet with a couple of lug nuts like me and Tiny.

"I just talked to him, Army, and I'm telling you he's making a window for us. Do you still have photos of those schematics on your phone?"

"Of course."

"Good. Bring them with you. When I told Hattie what we wanted to see him about, he kind of perked up."

"Jesus, Tiny, you didn't tell him where those drawings were located, did you?"

"Relax, will you? I didn't want to steal your thunder."

That wasn't exactly what I was worried about. I looked at the kitchen clock and asked, "Aren't you working tomorrow?"

"I'm supposed to," said Tiny, "but I told the boss something came up and asked if I could take a vacation day. It's no problem."

I thought about the situation for a moment and determined that I'd go along for now even though I had not circled back to talk to Nazarov directly since giving him back the envelope. Also, with Whitney now on the case perhaps it was better to hold off on that confrontation and see what she could dig up on the guy. Perhaps there was a reasonable explanation for all this after all, and I could stop jumping to all the conclusions I'd been formulating for the last several days. "Listen, Tiny, there's something you need to know."

"Uh-oh. That doesn't sound good," he said, picking up on my tone.

"It's not. I've noticed some strangers poking around over the last couple of days." I stepped to the window from which I'd spotted the trespassers the previous day and picked up the binoculars I'd rested on the windowsill there. Lifting them to my eyes, I scoped out the area around the vegetable garden and the tree line beyond.

"What do you mean, poking around? Poking around how?"

"Yesterday I spotted some trespassers on my back property, and this morning I spotted someone following me in Potomac."

"Potomac? What were you doing all the way in Potomac? You're not supposed to be driving."

He was referring to the fact that people who took anti-seizure medications were normally prohibited from driving. "Chill out on that, okay?" I said, thinking that Tiny was the last person on the planet that needed to know about my preoccupation with Whitney Valentine. "But I think you ought to watch your six."

"You sound serious."

"I am serious. As far as I know, there are only three people who know that I stumbled across those W54 schematics—me, Lisa, and you—and I'm taking precautions at my end because I don't think those trespassers were on my property because they were lost. I also don't think the car following me this morning happened to run out of gas on the road behind me. I insisted that Lisa start carrying her P30 with her to work this morning, and I've got every weapon I own locked and loaded and accessible. Like I said, I think you need to be aware of your environment."

Tiny took a moment. "Thanks for the heads up, Army. What about your kids?"

"Lisa doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to pick them up after school."

"I'd probably do the same thing," said Tiny. "What about the meeting with Hattie tomorrow?"

"What time?"

"Ten o'clock in his office."

"Can you pick me up?"

"I'll be there," said Tiny.

* * * * *

Lisa got home from work around five-thirty and luckily for me the main topic of conversation was about the big contract she'd landed at work. The principals at the firm were more than happy and she was all wound up with the aspect of spearheading the on-boarding process for her new client. It meant that she'd have to put in some extra hours over the next month or so until the transition process was complete, but that's what made my working as a handyman so ideal for her. Not only was I able to bring in some decent money most of the time, I was able to set my own schedule to accommodate whatever else was going on with the family. She'd always been able to devote whatever time she needed to the job and had not had to worry about me or the kids since they'd reached school age—until now, I thought. We had a nice dinner and I didn't tell her about the car I spotted when I went by Nazarov's house until we went to bed.

"I'm happy that the job is going well," I said.

She propped herself on one elbow and looked me straight in the eye. "It doesn't mean anything in comparison to you and the kids. I'm worried about you," she said, caressing my face.

"I know you are, but I'm worried about you too—and the kids."

"Is that why you picked them up from school today when you weren't supposed to be driving?"

"You know about that?"

"I asked them if they could get rides home with their friends and they texted me when you arranged to pick them up. They wanted to make sure everything was all right, Jake. They're worried about you too."

I took her hand in mine. "Everyone is worried about me, but I think it should be the other way around after what I saw today. Did you notice anyone following you today, or anything else that seemed unusual?"

That stopped the lovey-dovey part of the conversation in its tracks. "Why?" she asked suspiciously. "What happened?"

"I went by Nazarov's house today to see if he was home and I think I noticed someone following me."

She hesitated, and I knew she was putting it together with the trespassing episode of the previous day. "Nazarov," she spat out. "He's sending people after you for you being aware of those drawings."

I was shocked at the bluntness of her conclusion, but she put into one sentence the entire speech that I had prepared for her in my head. Without giving me a chance to say anything further, she went on, "And that means that he might go after me and the kids as leverage to get to you for whatever he's planning." She met my eyes with hers and asked, "How are we going to keep them safe? Jake? The kids. How are we going to protect them?"

I had to answer honestly and I replied, "I'm not sure yet, but you can be sure that nothing is going to happen to them, do you understand?" I saw the tears well up in her eyes. "Look at me," I said when she looked away. "Nothing is going to happen to those kids," I repeated. "I'm working on it."

She wiped her eyes and they took on a fierceness that I'd only seen a few times since we met each other when we were both fifteen years old. "You make sure of that, Jake. Nothing happens to those kids, no matter what. You got that?"

Okay then, I thought. I knew what I needed to do. The only thing I didn't talk about was my visit to Whitney Valentine.

* * * * *

I'd never been to the Pentagon. It was a serious place. I was particularly touched by the Hall of Heroes which is dedicated to the recipients of the Medal of Honor, the United States' highest military decoration. I didn't really know that there were three different versions of the medal, one for Navy, one for Army, and one for Air Force combat heroics. I was listening to Tiny describe a Medal of Honor recipient he'd crossed paths with in Vietnam named Willie Williams who led his river patrol boat in a counterattack in the Mekong Delta.

"The dude led his boat and his backup forces right into the teeth of the fight for three hours, man. I mean attack after attack. By the time it was all said and done they'd killed a thousand VC guerrillas and destroyed over fifty enemy junks and sampans that had been terrorizing the canals and conducting major logistic operations. The dude had balls, man."

"Fellow Marine?" I asked.

"Nope, Navy," said Tiny. "When you got called in, you didn't bother to ask who you were backing up. You just went. We were all brothers, man."

Of course, Tiny wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know, and I bet I could have named twenty guys who were just as brave as anyone listed in that Hall of Heroes and could have, and should have gotten the Medal of Honor, but who just treated their heroics as doing their job. Tiny was right about one thing, however: _We were all brothers, man_.

An aide to Brigadier General McCloskey found us and escorted us to his office. Tiny and McCloskey shook hands and hugged and Tiny said, "How's your old man, that old bag of wind."

Hattie replied, "I called the old bag of wind about an hour ago and told him I'd be seeing you this morning, and he said you still owe him twenty bucks and for you to go shit in your hat."

Tiny laughed so hard that his belly was shaking. "This is Jake Blackwell," he said. "Jake was a Ranger grunt with the 75th Regiment, 3rd Battalion for what... Jake? Ten years?"

"Almost eleven," I said, shaking Hattie's hand. Hattie was slight of build, looked to be in his late forties, his face creased and worn in spots the way varnish wears off the edge of a desk.

"Impressive," said Hattie. "You guys were always walking into the thick stuff—still are," he added. "There are a lot of brave soldiers who have choked down a lot of dust and lead that have come out of the 75th, but don't ever let my Seal buddies hear me say that. They've become pretty full of themselves since that Bin Laden thing."

Arrogantly, I said, "We did stuff like that before breakfast."

Hattie chuckled and said, "I hope you don't mind that I took the opportunity to check you out."

"Check me out?" I questioned.

"Yeah. I wanted to know who I was talking to. Three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan with a guest appearance in Somalia. You made the rank of Sergeant First Class. Distinguished Service Cross, two Silver Stars, and a whole slew of commendations for valor. And you were accepted to West Point. Not bad for an Army grunt, I'd say."

"And don't forget my two Purple Hearts," I said as I tapped my head where my plate was located. "The last one put me back here."

"Do you regret it?" Hattie asked seriously.

I noticed the stack of ribbons on Hattie's Marine service coat which was on a hanger off to the side of his desk, and I wondered how many of them carried the "V" for valor designation. I guessed that one didn't get to be a brigadier general without logging some significant front line combat time, and knowing Tiny the way I did, I guessed further that he would not have had as much respect for the man if that wasn't the case. "I miss the men, sir," I said, answering Hattie's question.

Hattie nodded as if he knew what I meant. "You're a civilian," he said. "You can call me Hattie." He motioned for us to sit down and suddenly he was looking very, very serious. He looked at Tiny first and his eyes swung over to me like gun turrets on a battleship. "What's this I hear about you coming across some schematics for a W54 nuclear device?"

I shot a look at Tiny and snapped sarcastically, "I'm glad you didn't tell anyone about this."

Tiny held up his hands in defense. "Hey, I had to get the man interested in talking to us. It got us in here, didn't it?"

"Is that true? Are you interested in talking to us, or are you just doing a favor for an old friend?" I said to Hattie. I could see him sizing me up. "Because if it's the latter, I don't have time to—"

"Jake, I'm the Vice Director for Intelligence, J2, here at the Pentagon. I'm the operational eyes and ears for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. If there are a bunch of crazy bastards out there who are going to construct a W54 nuclear device and leave it somewhere like what happened at the Boston Marathon, all I can say is that detonating a W54 ain't like setting off a little pressure cooker. If such a threat exists, I want to know about it. If this turns out to be a military situation, we'll handle it. If not, I can get the appropriate people involved, DHS, FBI, whatever. As of right now, however, being in illegal possession of classified plans on how to construct a U.S. military nuclear device sounds like a military intelligence matter. You're damned right I'm interested in talking to you."

Tiny was looking at me and nodded his go-ahead. Without saying another word I took out my cell phone and pulled up the photos I'd taken of the W54 schematics. I showed them to Hattie who looked at them, one by one, also without saying a word.

"These are all of them?" he asked after going through them a couple of times.

"That's everything that was in the envelope I found."

"What envelope?" he asked.

That's when I proceeded to tell Hattie that I worked as a handyman and how I'd come across the drawings.

"And this Nazarov guy... what do you know about him?" Hattie inquired.

"Only that he supposedly owns a software company in Silver Spring and that I think he's from Uzbekistan."

"Why do you say supposedly?"

"Only because when he bought his house the deed transfer showed that it was sold to UIF Enterprises and his name was not on the deed. That, and UIF Enterprises doesn't even come up when you do an internet search." Hattie was looking at me sideways. "I have a friend in the real estate business," I said.

"Uh-huh."

I didn't know if that was a good Uh-huh or a bad Uh-huh.

"And what makes you think he's from Uzbekistan?"

"I saw a couple of those big coffee table books in his house and just assumed that's where he was from."

"Uh-huh."

Again with the Uh-huh.

"And where are these drawings now?"

"I told Nazarov that I found the envelope on the floor when I was moving some furniture around and I gave them back to him the day after I found it."

"So he knows that you've seen them," Hattie concluded.

"I'm not sure. I told him I found the envelope but I didn't indicate that I'd seen what was inside of it. I have no idea if he knew that I'd taken it home with me. That's where I took those photos you're looking at."

Hattie said, "Uh-huh," yet again and took a moment before saying, "But there's more to this story, isn't there?"

To me it looked as if Hattie's eyes suddenly turned eight-ball black and bottomless. I couldn't get a read on what he was thinking and I suddenly knew that he'd questioned a few insurgents in his day. "Yeah, there's more," I said. "Nazarov gave me a look when I gave the envelope back to him."

"A look. Did he say anything?"

"He didn't have to," I said, and I could tell that Hattie got my meaning.

Hattie handed the phone back to me and asked, "Has anything else happened that points to him suspecting you've seen these?"

"Yeah," I said. "Someone has been surveilling me for the last two days that I know about, maybe longer." Well that livened things up and I could see both Tiny and Hattie shifting in their seats. "I'm taking measures to protect myself and my family," I said, and I left the comment there with no further explanation as I figured they both knew what that meant. I took the conversation into another direction and asked, "How would we know if someone could actually use those plans to build a W54?"

"Or several," said Tiny, speaking for the first time but adding a very important point.

"The magic question," said Hattie. "And to answer that I would need to consult with some other people who are located right in this building." He pointed to the phone. "I would probably need to download those photos in order to do that."

I think Hattie could sense my reluctance to hand them over just like that. "If I'm right and someone has indeed been stalking me, I'm a dead man if they find out I gave you these photos."

Hattie nodded and said, "I hate to tell you this, Jake, but if someone is already stalking you, you could be a dead man whether you hand them over or not. Not only that, I'm not going to let you leave this building until those photos are in my possession."

I could tell he wasn't screwing around.

"I figure you've already made copies of them, but I'll take what I can get," Hattie added. "You've done your duty, soldier. Now where is this Nazarov house located?"

I shot a look at Tiny who shrugged and said, "You need to protect your family, Jake. Leave Nazarov to the professionals."

I handed my phone back to Hattie and said, "The house is on Meetinghouse Road in Potomac."

* * * * *

We got done meeting with Hattie around eleven on Wednesday and we hopped into Tiny's fourteen-year-old Ford Explorer clunker that had a license plate frame on the back that read _My Other Car Is A Bentley_. "I'm embarrassed to be seen riding in this thing," I said as we tooled out of the Pentagon visitors' parking area belching smoke.

"It gets me back and forth," said Tiny, "and putting a quart of oil into the old girl every week is a lot cheaper than coughing up thirty grand for a new one."

I didn't have the heart to tell Tiny that new ones were probably closer to fifty. Talking about cars served to take our minds off the conversation we'd just had with Hattie for only a few minutes. We got onto Route 110 and onto the George Washington Parkway toward Maryland and we rode in silence along the Potomac off to our right.

"They're catching ten-pound snakeheads out of there right now," said Tiny. "I wonder how far up the Potomac they're going to make it."

Snakeheads are a top-of-the-food-chain invasive predator fish that has been making its way up the Potomac for the last fifteen years or so. "What?" I said, vaguely aware that Tiny was talking to me.

"Snakeheads," said Tiny. "We better get used to eating them 'cause that's the only way we're going to control those suckers. I hear they're good eatin', though."

"Right, snakeheads," I said absently. "I tried it once."

"How was it?"

"Huh?"

"Snakehead fish. Was it good?"

"Yeah... yeah, not bad," I replied as my mind continued to be occupied by thoughts about my family and the safety thereof. "Listen, what have you got going on the rest of the day?"

Tiny glanced at me as we bounced along and plowed through stretches of rough pavement. "What have you got in mind, Army?"

"I'd like to go by Nazarov's house and see if he's home."

"To what end?" Tiny shot back, suddenly sounding concerned. "That could be bad for your health."

I could see Tiny's eyes darting between the curvy road and me. "I need to know if he's the one who put that surveillance on me. Speaking of which, have you noticed anyone following us?"

Tiny's suddenly glanced into his rearview and then his side-view mirrors as his eyes narrowed above his tan, fleshy cheeks. "I haven't been paying attention for that," he said honestly. "Do you think someone is on to you now?"

The more I thought about that possibility, and the more I thought about the possibility of someone stalking my family—my kids—the more agitated I became. I felt my face getting hotter despite the air rushing through the open window. Knowing Tiny the way I did, I knew he didn't travel without protection. I shot a stare at him that he must have felt and asked, "Do you have any firearms in this car?"

"Jesus, Army, what the hell are you planning?"

I suddenly remembered what Lisa said to me the night before: _"Nothing happens to those kids, no matter what. You got that?"_ Tiny was still glancing between the road and me, waiting for an answer. "What would you do if someone came onto your property and came after _you?"_ I asked. "I'm not gonna wait for those bastards to do something to my wife and kids before I do something."

Tiny stopped glancing at me and looked straight ahead. "Are you absolutely sure someone was tracking you? It wasn't something you were imagining, right?"

I drilled Tiny with look that he must have felt on the side of his face. I kept looking at him until he looked back and met my eyes. Seeing them, he said, "Two weapons; one under my seat, and one in the wheel well with the spare tire."

"What are they?"

"A .357 magnum revolver, and a forty."

"Either one will do," I said. "Stop at the next scenic overlook."

* * * * *

I texted Lisa to let her know everything was normal—as far as the blackouts were concerned, that is. Everything was not normal with the rest of my thoughts. After that I texted both kids to see what time they'd be done at school for the day, and their responses were normal. Rachel was staying late with the drama club, and Scotty had baseball practice until five. They both texted back that they had rides home and I texted them back in all capital letters that I would pick both of them up at five-fifteen, no excuses. Rachel texted back that I was a pain. Scotty texted back asking if I was okay. I thought I might have a conversation with them both that evening and letting them know that they needed to be vigilant, but I figured Lisa would have something to say about that. I wondered if I should care about what Lisa thought, and I was leaning to the I-don't-give-a-rat's-ass side of that possible conversation.

We stopped at a McDonalds and I watched Tiny snack on a double quarter-pounder with cheese and a large fries, while I had a small chicken nuggets and a yogurt parfait off the dollar menu. I barely got that down with the way my stomach was clenching when I thought about what I wanted to say to Nazarov. We ate inside the Explorer while I hefted both the Smith and Wesson .357 Night Guard and the Smith and Wesson SD40 that he'd pulled out and put on the floor mat in front of me. The Night Guard was an animal of a gun despite its two-and-a-half inch barrel and its concealability. "Jesus," I said. I was intimidated just looking at it. "What's in this thing?" I was referring to the ammo, noticing that the cylinder held eight shots rather than the standard six that was the case for most .357s I'd seen.

"Full load, full metal jackets," said Tiny.

By full load I knew that he meant .357 magnum shells as opposed to .38 special rounds which could also be fired from the weapon. "I guess you believe in stopping power," I said as I palmed the .40 caliber SD40 in my hand next. It too was clearly constructed for shooters who appreciated being able to take down an adversary with the fewest possible shots.

"If I hit something, I don't want it to get back up," said Tiny. "I highly recommend the Night Guard, but I'm old school."

For me at that moment, it didn't matter which school I subscribed to except finding out if Nazarov was trying to set me up or take me down. Either scenario was causing me some significant agitation. I put the fully loaded Night Guard into its holster and into the console next to me.

Tiny watched me out of the corner of his eye and didn't say anything until we got onto River Road and headed toward Potomac. "I can't afford to get caught up in something that might send me to jail," he said directly. "If you want to do this guy, that's your business and I won't try to convince you otherwise, Army, but you're going to have to do it without me as an accomplice." He just sat there with his wrist cocked over the steering wheel until we pulled up to a light. "Retirement isn't that far away for me and the missus," he added, "and we got a nice little cabin squirrelled away near Deep Creek Lake. I ain't risking that for nobody."

He finally looked over at me and I realized that I must have looked like a maniac to him. "I just want to talk to the guy, Tiny. I just want to get a look at his eyes. If he's sending people after me, I'll know. The weapon is merely for protection."

"That I can live with," he said as the light turned green and we motored all the way up River Road into Potomac Village without another word. Meetinghouse Road was about four miles past village center and we took a right there. "I wonder what these people do for a living to be able to afford these places," Tiny said as we passed mansion after mansion on the way to Nazarov's place.

As soon as he said it, I wondered what Nazarov really did for a living. He sure as hell didn't own a software company.

"Do you have any idea what you're going to say to the guy?" Tiny asked, mirroring my own thoughts.

"I figure I'd talk to him about what was inside that envelope," I said. "Maybe he had no idea that it was under that cabinet. Maybe he's totally clueless about those drawings and I'm jumping to conclusions."

"Do you really believe that?" Tiny asked skeptically.

"Not for a minute," I said honestly, "but I have to treat it as a possibility."

"I think you need to be really careful about what you say, Army. If he really did send people after you, it wouldn't be very hard to get to your wife and kids regardless of whether or not you're taking precautions. You're not with them twenty-four-seven, and you can't be. The last thing you want to do is confront this guy and have him turn up the heat on you or go after them to get leverage on you. Maybe you ought to think this through a little more."

Tiny was trying to talk me out of it. Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed to wait to see what Hattie did. Maybe I needed to see if Whitney Valentine came up with something about Nazarov that might make me reconsider. Then again, what if I was right and I and my family were in real danger and I was diddling around trying to give Nazarov the benefit of the doubt? I'd never be able to live with myself if something happened to Lisa or the kids because I was being complacent. I was one confused puppy. "Maybe you're right," I said.

Tiny looked at me and said, "And I can tell by the look on your face that you're thinking what if I'm not?"

"Let's just go by there and see if he's home. Maybe something will come to me when we get there."

Skeptically, Tiny said, "I guess we've come this far, but I still think you might be playing with fire."

We got to about a quarter mile from Nazarov's house and we came around one of the big curves on Meetinghouse Road and suddenly spotted a couple of Montgomery County police cars ahead of us with lights flashing and partially blocking the right lane. "I think they're right in front of Nazarov's house," I said.

Tiny let the Explorer coast up closer to the scene. "I wonder what this is all about."

"See if you can pull up behind the police cars," I instructed. "I wanna get a closer look."

Tiny did as I said and I was able to get a view of the circular driveway in front of the three-column portico entrance to the house. There was another car there, looking distinctly like an unmarked police car, and a plain white van behind it. I reached over and pushed the button to activate the flashers and stepped out of the Explorer toward the police cars. Seeing me exit, Tiny did the same. The thuds of the doors closing on the Explorer attracted the attention of the officer standing there while the other officer directed traffic around the police cars.

"Can I help you?" the officer said when we got within range.

"Yeah, you can...." I looked at the nametag and added, "... Officer Littell." I always called officers by their name whenever possible; it was more respectful, I felt. "My name is Jake Blackwell and I work as a handyman and we were supposed to do some work here today. What's going on? Can we get in there?"

"Sorry, not today," the officer said. "This is a crime scene."

"Crime scene? What the hell happened?"

"Not real sure," said Littell. "Haven't been inside. It's just the detective and the forensics guy in there right now."

"Forensics? Is someone dead?"

"Whoever lives here, I guess," said Littell. "Listen, you're gonna have to move that vehicle," he said, pointing to the Explorer. "This is a narrow road and people gotta get by."

"What about our money?" Tiny asked, playing the part perfectly.

"Sorry, you're not gonna get paid today," said Littell. "Besides, you don't want to go in there. I understand the guy's been dead for a couple of days."

I looked at Tiny and said, "This can't be good."

# Part Two

# Rachel

Chapter 6... Rachel

Wednesday, April 24th, 3:31 p.m. Detective 3rd Grade Joseph Benke, pronounced Ben-kee, wrote down the date and time into his notepad and said, "Damn, Mike, what the hell happened to this guy?"

Forensic Investigator Mike Toscano just shook his head. "It wasn't pleasant, Joe. This guy took a long time to die. I've seen bodies banged up before, you know, car accidents and stuff, but nothing like this."

"He's really ripe. Any idea as to how long he's been dead?" Benke asked, holding a medical mask over his nose.

"Three, four days. Can't get much closer than that right now."

"I suppose it's too early to speculate on cause of death," said Benke as he got a little closer and examined the dozens of bruises that covered the body. The corpse was stripped to the waist and almost completely bruised all over the upper torso.

Toscano said, "Well, the obvious choice is blunt force trauma, but it's impossible to determine if there was one specific blow that killed him. From what I can tell, I think every bone in his upper torso is probably broken and I suspect the same is true for his legs. Someone worked this guy over with something heavy like a baseball bat or maybe even sledge hammer. Whoever the assailant was, he was swinging away like Reggie Jackson on this guy."

"Your memory goes back that far?" said Benke.

Toscano normally had a sense of humor about being teased because of his age, but not this time. "Sorry, Joe, I can't laugh about this one. I get the shivers just thinking about it. We'll know more when the ME gets him on the table."

"Yeah, right, sorry Mike. Is this a ligature mark on his neck?"

"Sure is," said Toscano. "If you look over there you'll see where someone smashed a lamp and used the cord to choke the crap out of this guy. There's blood all over it."

"But it didn't kill him," Benke surmised.

"Again, hard to tell, but the nature of the bruising on his neck is such that he was alive for some time after the cord was wrapped around it. This guy was being tortured, Joe—very methodically."

Benke looked around the room. They were in what was called the game room in these big showy mansions that dotted every corner of Potomac. They were in the basement level of the house, with a standup bar at one end of the space and a full size pool table in the middle, along with a TV room at the other end with a massive plasma screen hanging on the wall. Two huge sectional sofas formed a ring around a huge, low cocktail table, and six other chairs were arranged movie theater style behind the sectionals. This one level was bigger than his entire house in terms of square footage, Benke guessed, and the victim's body was heaped onto itself on top of a rubberized mat that served as the floor of a home gym section that had a treadmill, a rowing machine, and one of those resistance weight machines there. A blood-stained metal stack chair was next to the body and it looked like that's where the poor soul was sitting while whoever played Reggie Jackson rained blows on the guy.

There had to be two of them, Benke figured, maybe three, for no one would just sit there to be clobbered over and over again. Someone had to hold the guy in that chair while he was being struck. There was a pair of loose-weight hand barbells on the corner of the mat, one of which was disassembled so that the weights had been taken off and just lying there. Benke looked around and spotted the bar itself lying off to the side near the treadmill. There were streaks of blood all over it.

"I think I found one of the things they might have used to do damage," Benke said. Make sure you get some good pics of that, would you Mike?"

"You got it," said Toscano.

Benke continued walking the area, noticing something he thought to be unusual. "There doesn't seem to be much blood splattered around for such a violent event," he said to Toscano.

"That's because it's probably all pooled inside him," Toscano responded. "For as much internal bleeding as this guy undoubtedly had, he'll pop like a water balloon as soon as the ME sticks a scalpel in him."

Benke shuddered at the mere thought of that visual. Stopping, taking in the scene, the assailants had probably taken the victim down here on purpose, he figured. The guy could have screamed to high heaven and no one would have heard any of it. Benke stood there for some time, just observing and looking into corners where normally one wouldn't think to look. This was going to be his 208th homicide investigation—he averaged just over one a month over almost sixteen years as a homicide detective—and certainly this would be a homicide because it was painfully obvious this poor bastard didn't do this to himself. Almost all of those homicide investigations were solved quickly, situations where murderer and victim knew each other, and while it was entirely possible that this victim knew the people who took his life, this one was different. Benke had never worked on an organized crime case, and in reality he knew only what he saw on TV, but this sure looked like one to him. Methodical, intended to elicit maximum pain, it was an organized torture session. Benke thought: maybe after the first few blows the guy went into shock and didn't feel anything. He'd heard that was possible in cases of extreme pain, but he didn't really know.

"Any ID on the body?" he called over his shoulder.

"None," Toscano called back. "Is there anything else you want to look at before I load this guy into the van?"

"No, you go ahead," Benke answered. "See if you can get Brophy to do the autopsy. I think he's the best ME on the staff."

"I'll ask, but for something like this you're probably going to get the head honcho himself."

Toscano was talking about the Chief Medical Examiner, Albert Sizemore. "Do what you can," said Benke, as he walked to the stairway to go upstairs. He'd absorbed all he wanted to absorb out of this basement level—for now. Walking back to the main floor, he began to make his way around the rest of the house. Slowly, he walked from room to room. Clearly the guy had money. Looked like he was having some remodeling done. He crossed from one wing of the house to the next, stopping in the large, open foyer where a pile of mail was strewn haphazardly on a glass and brass console table there. Benke picked several pieces off the stack and noted the name on the envelopes: Ruslan P. Nazarov. He jotted it down and moved to the next room; it looked to be the formal living room. He noticed two large travel books on the cocktail table there, both of them having to do with Uzbekistan. Uzbekistan, thought Benke. He wasn't sure where that was, exactly. He turned a few pages in one of the books and noted that it was below Russia and surrounded by a whole bunch of other countries whose names ended with s-t-a-n. According to the pictures in one of the books it looked like they grew a lot of rocks there. So how did a guy from a country that grew rocks get enough money to buy a place like this in freakin' Potomac, he wondered. He'd have to look into that.

* * * * *

Jake and Tiny got back to Jake's place by midafternoon. "Thanks for the ride," said Jake. "You want to come in for a cold drink before heading home?"

"I'm okay," said Tiny. "Are you?"

"I don't know what to think of it. It kind of gives me the yips."

Tiny nodded. "I can understand that." He put the Explorer into drive and said, "Watch your six."

"Yeah. You watch yours too. You might be part of this now—whatever this is."

Tiny gave him a look. "Whatever it is, it's serious shit, Army. I'll catch you later."

Jake watched Tiny peel up the long, packed-gravel driveway and out onto Mount Ephraim Road. There were two people on his follow up list now, thought Jake: Hattie McCloskey, whom he'd just seen, and Whitney Valentine whom he'd seen the day before. He was wondering if she'd had enough time to nose around about Nazarov, Nazarov's house, or anything connected to UIF Enterprises, and he figured she might appreciate knowing that Nazarov was dead before she did too much digging. Jake went around to the back entrance which was the one the family normally used and he let himself in, noting that it was quite warm in the house. He walked into the hallway and clicked the thermostat to _COOL_ , and the central AC unit came to life immediately. It was the first time it had been on all year. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, he texted Lisa to let her know that he was back from his visit to the Pentagon and that he was all right and seizure free, and she texted back a minute later that she'd texted the kids and they were fine but wondering why Dad was picking them up after school again, and what the heck was going on with the family.

Things had to get back to normal, thought Jake, both with this W54 thing and with his TBI thing, and he hoped to hell the tests he was scheduled to take at the VA the next day would reveal something. He closed his eyes and took a moment to relax, listening to the drone of the AC unit. When he woke up, he was in the hospital.

* * * * *

Jake opened his eyes and he saw Lisa standing a few feet away talking to his TBI neurologist, Doctor Kapoor. It took him a moment to figure out where he was. "The blackouts are getting longer," he heard Lisa say. "At first it seemed like they were just memory lapses. He'd forget things, common things that he should never have forgotten, but then it got worse. The blackout at the VFW lasted for about an hour, I think, but this one was all night. I found him slumped over at the kitchen table last night when I got home from work and he hasn't woken up since. I'm scared to death about this doctor."

Jake rolled his head from side to side and tried to sit up in the bed. "I'm awake," he rasped out, realizing his throat was dry as Iraqi sand. She rushed to his side with the doctor not far behind. "Where are we?" he coughed out.

"We're at the VA hospital," she said softly, giving him some water. "We brought you here last night by ambulance. Do you remember any of it, darling?"

Jake just shook his head and focused on the doctor. "I don't. I must be really out of it, eh Doc?"

"I'm fairly certain that something is causing increased pressure inside your skull," said Kapoor. "Have you been suffering from any headaches, Jake? Experiencing any throbbing, sudden twinges or shooting pain of any sort?"

Jake shook his head again. "Sorry Doc, not that I can remember. Everything seems normal one minute, and the next minute it's night-night."

Kapoor nodded understandingly. "Try to get some rest. Maybe now that you're awake we can run a CAT scan on you. I'll check back on you later."

Jake waited for the doctor to leave and asked, "How are the kids?"

"Upset, scared, everything you'd expect them to be," Lisa replied. "They were here last night but I forced them to go to school today."

"Good move. What about you?"

"I'm dealing," said Lisa. "But I'd rather not be. The big question is what about you?"

"It's coming at me out of left field," said Jake. "One minute I'm here, the next minute I'm gone. What if the doctors can't solve this, Lisa? It will change the way we live our lives—well, at least mine anyway."

"No, it is our lives, honey, but we'll figure it out. We always have and we always will—together."

"I feel guilty."

"Don't."

"It's hard not to."

Lisa bent down and kissed him softly. "Think of it this way. If the same thing was happening to me or one of the kids, where would you be?"

Jake smiled. "Right where you are."

"It's what spouses do, Jake." She smiled. "It's not just about the sex."

Jake kept smiling. "I wouldn't feel guilty about the sex. Speaking of which, it's been a while since we, uh...."

"Since we, uh... what?"

"You know. Are you going to make me say it?"

She came close to his ear, breathing into it. "Yeah, I'm going to make you say it. It always makes you excited when you talk like that."

"Oh, great. You're going to make me excited in a hospital room, and then what? Are you going to take your clothes off and hop into the bed with me?"

"No."

"See, there you go. But there are things you can do without taking your clothes off, you know."

"Oh, I see where you're going with this." She snuggled close. "I'll tell you what. You go through those tests today and do what the doctor says, and I'll do something you won't forget for a while." She licked his ear.

Jake thought: who the hell needed Whitney Valentine? Then, he looked at Lisa and almost confessed to her about how Whitney had tried to seduce him. From the other side of his brain, another little voice was saying: _Shut up, stupid. You didn't actually do anything._

As if she was reading his mind, Lisa teased him some more and whispered into his ear, "By the way, your girlfriend called."

Jake tensed up immediately. "My girlfriend?"

"Yeah, that fixed up real estate agent friend of yours from Potomac that wants to go to bed with you. She called last night and left a message on your cell phone. I heard the ring tone and thought it might be important so I checked it. It was her, _Jakey."_

"She doesn't want to go to bed with me," he defended.

"Oh, _puhl...eease_ ," said Lisa. "She couldn't be more obvious about it."

Lisa didn't pull away from him, Jake noticed. In fact, she seemed to be smiling—sort of. "You're upset," he said, and she tickled his ear again. "Or maybe you're not," he countered.

"That depends," said Lisa. "Do you want to go to bed with _her?"_ He paused a little too long before answering and she said, "Too late... busted, _Jakey!"_

"It must be upset," he concluded.

"Jake, I've watched other women who've wanted to go to bed with you since I was sixteen. This is not the one that would upset me. If you want to have a little fling, go ahead, but you'll come back to Mama Bear. Her bed is not too hard and not too soft; it's just right. You just want to get a look at what's inside her shirt."

"I've already seen what's inside her shirt," he confessed. Lisa reeled back now, just a bit, and he told her about his recent visit with Whitney.

"And you'd rather have that than _this?"_ she asked, posing for him. " _This_ didn't come from a package."

He realized now that she was provoking him. He pulled her close and said, "I don't know what I would do without you."

They kissed and Lisa said, "By the way, the hussy left a message and said you should call her. Evidently she got some information about this Nazarov guy." She went into her handbag and said, "Here's your cell phone."

"What? You want me to call her now?"

"Why not? Do you have something else to do? Oh, or maybe you don't want me to hear you talk to your girlfriend."

"Okay, you can stop that now," said Jake, but he knew he was cornered. He did, however, want to know if Whitney had discovered something. "Are you going to just stand there and listen?"

Crossing her arms, Lisa said, "Yup."

He gave her a look, but he might as well have been looking at a brick wall. He found Whitney's name in his contacts list and gave it a tap.

"Oh, got her number on speed dial, do we?" Lisa sniped.

Jake shot her another snarl.

"Hello, _Jakey,"_ Whitney said as she picked up, which only served to deepen the look of disdain on Lisa's face.

"Whitney, I'm here with my wife and she told me you left a message to call you back."

"Oh?" Pause. "You're wife said that? I thought I left that message on your cell phone."

"You did," Jake responded, detecting her apprehension. "I've had a little accident, Whitney, and I'm in the VA hospital. Lisa was picking up my messages for me." Lisa was the Sphinx, huge and immovable.

"Oh gosh, Jake. Are you all right?"

It wasn't Jakey this time. "We're not sure," he responded honestly. "I'm going to go through more tests today." He left it at that. "Did you call me about Nazarov? Were you able to find anything?"

"Only that I don't think he was the owner of that house," Whitney replied.

"Are you still referring to the UIF Enterprises thing?" Jake asked. "I think we already knew that."

"It gets weirder," said Whitney.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you might remember that I thought Sissy Mayhugh had the listing the last time the house was sold."

"Yeah. I think you said about three years ago."

"Right. Good memory, Jakey."

It was back to Jakey. He looked at Lisa and she made a face.

"I called her and she remembered the transaction, all right."

"Just like that? From three years ago?"

"She did because the deal was pretty unusual. According to her the buyers were a man and a woman from Hong Kong who paid cash."

"Cash? Didn't you say the house sold for over two million?"

"$2.67 million, to be exact, and Nazarov's name is nowhere near this transaction, which we already knew."

"So this couple from Hong Kong... were they, or did they have anything to do with UIF Enterprises?"

"That's just it," said Whitney. "UIF Enterprises had nothing to do with that deal either. Sissy still had a copy of the original offer contract from the agent representing the buyers, and according to that their names were Mister Qiū Xiǎopíng and his wife Xiùměi, which I'm probably pronouncing completely wrong, but they sound nothing like Nazarov or UIF Enterprises. Sissy also still had the current contact information for the sellers, a Mr. and Mrs. Agnosicki, and I actually called them and they remember it the same way. I think I scared the crap out of them."

"So how did the name UIF Enterprises get on the deed and title papers, and where is this couple from Hong Kong?"

"No clue on either one," Whitney replied. "I told you this was weird."

"Yeah, and it's like you said—it gets even weirder."

"What do you mean?" Whitney asked curiously. "What else have you found out?"

"Nazarov is dead."

"Oh, Jakey," said Whitney. "This just went past weird and straight into scary."

Just then Doctor Kapoor came back into the room and Jake said, "Thanks for your help, Whitney, but I have to go. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Bye Jakey," said Whitney. "And goodbye to you too, Mrs. Blackwell."

Caught by surprise, Lisa went to say something but the words just got caught in her throat.

"Are you feeling up to taking that CAT scan?" Kapoor asked.

"Why not," said Jake. "Hopefully it won't be another dead end."

* * * * *

"Hi Rachel, it's Mom. I'm just leaving the hospital now. Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine, Mom. How is Dad doing?"

"I think he's feeling okay, but he's pretty ticked off."

"At you?"

"No, just in general that the doctors can't seem to pinpoint what's wrong and figure out why he keeps going through these blackout periods." Lisa pressed her key remote and popped the locks on her car as she approached it. Getting in, she continued her conversation as she pulled out of the lot and headed for Dickerson which was about forty minutes away.

"Is he coming home with you?"

"No, they're going to keep him overnight for observation and run some more tests tomorrow."

"That should make him happy," Rachel said sarcastically.

"I left some peanut butter cookies out for you and Scotty as a snack until I get home to make dinner, but to tell you the truth I'd rather just bring home a pizza if that's okay with you."

"Pizza is fine, Mom. Have you been at the hospital all day?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Do you want pineapple on your pizza?"

"How did you know?"

"I'm your mother; I know everything."

"Scotty doesn't like pineapple on his pizza."

"That's okay. I'll get two. With his appetite the way it is these days, he could probably eat a whole one by himself. Is he home yet?"

"Not yet. He texted me that he's taking the late bus from practice so he should be here in about twenty minutes."

"Good. I won't be too far behind him. Would you do me a favor and order two pizzas from Carlo's and I'll pick them up on my way home."

"Sure Mom. I hope it doesn't rain on you."

Lisa looked through the windshield into the distance as she merged onto Route 85 outside of Frederick. "Is it raining there?" she asked.

Rachel replied, "Not yet, but I just looked outside and I think there's a big storm is coming down off the river. It's getting really dark out."

Lisa saw the huge rainclouds on the horizon. "You'll be okay, sweetheart. Just stay away from the windows in case it starts thundering and lightning."

"It's really spooky, Mom."

"I'll be home soon, honey. Just look out for Scotty, okay."

"Okay, Mom. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart. Bye now."

"Bye Mom." Then, "Mom, wait!" Rachel shot back urgently.

"What is it, honey? Did you forget something?"

"Mom, did you open the door to Dad's workshop today? It's wide open and the light is on inside. I... I can see it from here."

Lisa detected more than a little apprehension in her daughter's voice. "Rachel, are you sure?"

"Of course, Mom. I'm looking right at it. Daddy never leaves the door to his workshop unlocked... does he?"

"No, absolutely not," Lisa replied, thinking back to the night before when she found Jake slumped over on the kitchen table. She couldn't remember if she'd seen the door to the workshop in those panic-filled hours, or not; her mind had been on Jake. She felt the tension in Rachel's voice. Looking quickly into her rearview mirror, she pressed the gas pedal and sent her Camry flying past sixty. Almost simultaneously, she heard Rachel breathe in as if she'd just sucked a bird out of the sky. "Rachel! Rachel, what is it?"

"Oh my God! Someone is here, Mom. I can see someone walking around inside the workshop."

Panic overtook Lisa's senses. "Rachel! Rachel, listen to me."

"Oh my God, Mom! Someone just walked out of the workshop and is coming across the yard toward the house. It's a man, Mom! What do I do?"

"Rachel, get out of there, now! Go to the front door and leave through that side of the house and run. Run, Rachel, run!" Lisa's head was about to explode. "Rachel, are you there?" She looked at her phone and checked the volume setting but it was already at maximum. "Rachel? _Rachel!"_ Careening around the curves on Route 85, Lisa skidded and swerved back toward Dickerson as her engine struggled to propel the car fast enough. Screaming onto Dickerson Road and then onto Mount Ephraim Road she didn't dare get off the phone to call 911 for fear that Rachel would come back on the line. Reaching her driveway, the engine smoking from its 5,000-rev pummeling and barely in control, Lisa sent gravel flying in every direction and nose-dived to a wild, sliding stop. Having the height of mind awareness to pull the P30 out of her handbag and pull the slide so that she was ready to shoot anyone and anything that might have laid a hand on her daughter, having no regard for her own life or whatever danger she might be heading into, she ran to the back door and launched herself through it, gun raised, running straight into her son Scotty who was standing in the middle of the kitchen eating a peanut butter cookie.

"Mom, what the heck are you doing?" said Scotty.

"Where's Rachel?" Lisa screamed.

"She's not here," said Scotty. "Is she supposed to be?"

* * * * *

Benke sipped his coffee as he reread the initial forensics report and he decided to give Toscano a call. "Mike, Joe Benke here. I know it's only been one day, but do we have anything back yet on the fingerprints found at the scene yet?"

"Joe, gimme a break, will you? We got prints from all over the house, but most of them were not specific to the scene itself. We're narrowing all that down now."

"Can you tell me anything?"

"I hesitate to speculate," said Toscano. "It was evident that the guy was having some work done on the house and we found prints from perhaps as many as seven or eight different individuals there. I figure they were probably workmen. We're trying to match those prints to the few we found in the basement area itself where the guy was worked over. Unfortunately, we only found a few useable prints down there besides those of the victim himself, and I have a feeling none of them will match up. Whoever broke this guy up knew what they were doing, Joe. I'm pretty sure they were wearing gloves, and I'm pretty sure they had their own tools of the trade—which they obviously took with them, by the way, seeing as we didn't find any at the scene."

Benke knew these things took time but he was already impatient. Rubbing his close-cropped and graying hair, he asked, "What about the victim? Do you have a confirmed ID on him yet?"

"Still working on it, Joe. You'll be the first to know."

"What about the autopsy?"

"What about it?"

"Do you know when it's scheduled?"

"Joe... you're already making me nuts. You'll have to call up to the ME's office... and, no, I don't know if Brophy caught the case."

Benke knew he could drive people crazy, but that's why he was good at what he did. Okay, he thought, he'd have to wait for things to take their sweet time. Maybe he'd go back out to the scene.

* * * * *

Jake felt someone shaking his arm. Half asleep, he mumbled, "Not another blood test. Go away." Then he heard what he thought was Lisa's voice. Wasn't she just here, he thought to himself. He suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that something was terribly wrong. "Lisa!" he called, snapping up abruptly in the bed, but it wasn't Lisa. He rubbed his eyes. "Tiny? Is that you? What are you doing here?" He tried to focus on the clock on the wall. "Is it two o'clock in the morning?" he asked groggily. "Or did I sleep all the way into tomorrow?"

Tiny came up to the bed, his big, bouncy belly smacking into the guardrail. "Wake up, Army," he said gruffly. "I've got to take you home."

Jake didn't even notice the nurse who was standing behind Tiny as she was almost completely hidden by him. "I'm afraid that's not possible," she said urgently. "This patient hasn't been cleared for checkout."

"C'mon, Jake," said Tiny. "Snap out of it son. We have to go." Turning to the nurse he added, "Why is he so groggy?"

"The doctor prescribed a sedative to help him sleep," the nurse replied. "Who are you, sir? You can't just barge in here like this."

"Can I talk to you outside for a second?"

Jake fell back on the bed and wondered why he'd heard Lisa's voice. It upset him, as if something bad had happened. He rolled urgently from side to side, struggling to come out of his funk. Moments later Tiny and the nurse came back into the room and this time the nurse came up to the bed and began pulling the covers off. "Try to wake up, Mister Blackwell. You have to go now." She helped him sit up and said to Tiny, "Hold him steady for a minute while I get a wheelchair."

"Tiny... what the..."

"Take it easy, Army. We'll have you out of here in no time."

Ten minutes later Jake was stepping into Tiny's Ford Explorer and felt the air conditioning blasting on his face. Tiny scrambled into the driver's seat and turned to Jake before putting the vehicle into drive. "Now take it easy, Army. I got something to tell you."

The parking lot lights and shadows slashed across Tiny's face so that it seemed as if he only had half of one. His eyes, however, were riveted on his own, Jake noted. He'd seen that look before coming from many faces in many different battles and it always meant the same thing. His mind wasn't completely clear yet, and Jake prepared himself for the worst. He clenched his fists as if he was getting ready to take a blow. "Tiny, just give it to me."

"Rachel is gone." For a second, Jake thought Tiny was telling him she was dead until he said, "They had to know she was home alone, Jake. They had to be watching."

Jake shook his head. "Wait, are you telling me Rachel was taken?"

"Lisa said she tried to call you but it kept going to voicemail."

Disoriented now, the thoughts about Rachel, the phone, Lisa, all of it was bouncing around in Jake's head so that he couldn't concentrate on any one thing. "Yeah, uh, the phone... it was set on vibrate. What... how... what are you telling me?" He still couldn't comprehend it. Tiny's face was a blur.

Tiny reached across and took Jake firmly by both shoulders. "Army, pay attention. Look at me. Are you with me?"

Fighting furiously to regain his senses, Jake felt himself spinning. Lightheaded, he was on the verge of keeling over. He took one deep breath, then another, the rush of oxygen to his brain helping him to stabilize and concentrate on what Tiny was trying desperately to tell him. Oddly, the smell of candy penetrated from somewhere, and then it vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a puff of Tiny's bad breath. He held on to Tiny's arms until the nauseating sensation in his stomach began to pass. Tiny's hands were like vise grips. "Tell me what happened," Jake croaked out. His eyes swiveled in their sockets, ultimately pointing themselves toward Tiny.

"Lisa was on the phone with Rachel after she came here to see you earlier. Do you remember Lisa being here tonight, Army?"

Jake's head flopped about in something resembling a nod.

"Lisa was on the phone with her, Army, when Rachel said someone was there, in your workshop. They took her, Army. Someone took your daughter."

Jake started to say something but suddenly pushed Tiny's hands away and stuck his head out the open door of the Explorer. Heaving mightily, he retched until his stomach cramped up and he could barely breathe. His eyes red, his voice quivering, he pulled himself up and said to Tiny, "Take me home."

Chapter 7... Going Under

Friday, April 25th, 4:30 a.m. Lisa closed her eyes when normally she'd be getting up in another hour. Jake was a wreck. But who was she kidding—she was a wreck. The police had come and gone and any notion of an amber alert was dashed due to the fact that there was nothing to look for—no description of any suspect, no description of any vehicle, no ransom note or other correspondence, no nothing all the way down the line. "I'm sorry, someone will contact you in the morning after we file this report," the officer had said, by which time Rachel could be anywhere, Lisa thought. In the darkness of her bedroom, she lay on her back and looked toward the ceiling as tears rolled through the crows' feet at the corners of her eyes. Tiny was kind enough to stay with Jake who never really came out of his sedative-induced stupor, and was still with him now as Jake was lights out on the family room couch.

"Try to get some sleep," Tiny had said to Lisa as he put a throw blanket over Jake and took a chair. "I'll stay with him so that he doesn't wake up in a panic and possibly hurt himself. Maybe I can stay for a while when he comes out of this later," he added.

She had no idea how to begin to thank Tiny, but she'd worry about that later. Right now her mind was on Rachel and what she must be going through. Her tears soaked into her pillow and began to wet the back of her neck. She couldn't stop them. And what about Scotty? She was tempted to get him from his bedroom and put him in the bed next to her, but she knew he wouldn't come. He wouldn't want anyone to see him cry, which he didn't the entire time since he'd eaten that peanut butter cookie twelve hours earlier. Twelve hours: Rachel could be in another state by now, hundreds of miles away. Would she ever see her daughter again, Lisa wondered as she sobbed herself into an exhausted state and forced herself to close her eyes. She woke up two hours later when Tiny knocked on the bedroom door and said, "Jake is awake."

Lisa shot up in the bed. "Where is he?"

"In the workshop," Tiny answered. "He woke up and went directly there."

Lisa blew past him and raced across the yard as the dawning sun bled through the trees. Jake was standing in the doorway of the workshop. He turned and extended his arm toward her as she approached.

"Stay where you are," he said. "I heard you say that Rachel saw someone in here before he came to the house. Is that correct?"

"Jake, the police said not to—"

"Is that correct?" he bellowed as Tiny lumbered up behind Lisa.

"Yes, that's correct," she replied as she gave Tiny a look. Jake was barely standing, one arm propping him in the doorway. Tiny just shook his head and it was enough of an indication to let Lisa know that neither of them were going to sway Jake from whatever he was about to do.

Jake turned back toward the inside of the workshop. He stood there as his eyes landed on every tool and every piece of equipment inside his shop: the table saw, the radial arm saw, the band saw, the lathe, his grinding wheel, and on and on, from the rows of clamps that occupied an entire wall, to the rolling tool box that housed his hand tools, to the cabinets and shelves where he stored his glues, caulks, and paints. The sweet smell of sawdust mixed with the acrid reek of solvents and adhesives, odors that were as familiar to him as coffee. After a couple of wordless minutes he stepped from the doorway into the workshop and came out seconds later holding an envelope on top of which was a snapshot of Rachel carrying a backpack. He recognized the background as being the entrance to her high school. Both items were pierced by a nail. "These were nailed to the drafting table," he said, handing the photo to Lisa. "They were following her."

"I've seen this trick with the picture before," said Tiny. "They took it in a familiar place because they want you to know they can get to you and the kids anytime and anyplace."

Lisa took the picture and began sobbing in great heaving gasps, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She looked at the envelope and then at Jake.

He spread it open and extracted about four inches of human hair, Rachel's hair, and it was all he could do to control himself and keep standing. Like Tiny, he's seen this trick before too, in Afghanistan, only then the kidnappers usually sent a finger, or a tooth.

"They're telling you they haven't hurt her yet," said Tiny. "That's why it's hair."

In anguish, Jake extracted a piece of paper from the envelope. Reading it, he said, "You will get your daughter back when we get our blueprints back. If you involve the police you will never see her again."

"Oh my God," said Lisa. "We've already called the police."

"And whoever wrote that doesn't know you gave those plans back," said Tiny.

"Yeah," Jake said weakly. "That's a problem."

* * * * *

It was two days since the murder victim was found at Meetinghouse Road and the name Ruslan P. Nazarov didn't come up on any public records. When Benke checked with the electric company, the account was in Nazarov's name all right, but the bill was being paid by a property management company. When he cross-checked for a phone number tied to the address, there was none, meaning whoever lived there was not using a land line for phone communication. When Benke checked with the MVA, there were no vehicles registered in Maryland to a Ruslan P. Nazarov despite the four vehicles sitting in the garage. Those were registered to a company named UIF Enterprises, which also did not come up in any searches on the internet. Benke knew that any company registered in Maryland would have had to file a yearly property tax return, so he checked with the people in Baltimore and no company named UIF Enterprises came up. Also, no one named Ruslan P. Nazarov came up as a registered driver in Maryland. Of course, there was no way of knowing whether the victim carried a Maryland driver's license or one from any other state because there was no wallet or ID on the body. When Benke checked for outstanding warrants, nothing came up for anyone with that name. When he filled in his section supervisor about his findings, the supervisor said, "So the guy was totally under the radar."

"As was everything about him. I'm sure his killers knew the body would leave clues. I'm surprised they left it," said Benke. "You'd think that wise guys like this wouldn't want to draw attention to themselves."

"What, do you think they were professionals? This isn't TV, Benke."

"I don't know, boss. Looks pretty methodical. Could have been a gang maybe."

"Maybe the body was left on purpose, maybe as a warning. How did we become aware of this pleasant little incident?"

"Believe it or not, from a UPS delivery guy. He had some experience in the military and thought he got a whiff of decomp when he rang the doorbell. He called it in to 911."

"Maybe you should go back out to the scene and dig around some more."

Ten minutes later Benke was in his car and on the way. Halfway there he got a call from the chief medical examiner. "Joe, Al Sizemore here. I know you're anxious for the COD on that Potomac case so I thought I'd give you a call."

"I appreciate that, Al. What'dya got?" Benke slurped his coffee and listened closely.

"It was probably a severe blow directly to the heart. Whatever hit him broke right through the pleura, crushed the sternum and destroyed the costal cartilage."

"In English, Doc."

"The victim was hit by a monstrous blow, Joe, actually several of them, but the one that killed him came from something heavy like a sledge hammer or some other heavy, blunt object. Whatever it was, it shattered the protective shroud covering the heart and crushed the ribs so that they penetrated into it. It's the type of injury generally associated with car crashes where some huge force smashes into the chest area."

"Ouch," said Benke.

"I'll say," said Sizemore. "If you're still looking for a murder weapon, I'd be looking for something like I just described."

"Could it have been a piece from a barbell set, Doc? You know, like the bar that holds the weights themselves? We found something like that at the scene that had some blood on it."

"Hard to say," said Sizemore. "I'd say that just because something had blood on it doesn't mean it was the murder weapon, especially after seeing the body. There had to be blood spatter, you know? Anything within several feet could have gotten blood on it, and from the damage done to the body the murder weapon had to have been something capable of delivering such crushing force, something with real weight to it. But to answer your question, I guess it's possible, but it would depend on the strength of the individual behind the blow."

"Thanks Al. I appreciate the call."

Benke put his coffee back in the cup holder as he reached the house on Meetinghouse Road. He let himself in, noting that the keypad in the foyer indicated that the alarm had not been set. He decided to do a slow crawl through the house. He'd already done a cursory examination the first time he was there, but it was just that: cursory. This time, he would take his time and look at everything in more detail. It was a procedure he'd practiced many times when he wasn't sure what he was looking for, and not only wasn't he sure what he was looking for on this case, he wasn't sure what he had. The victim's identity was in question, the crime scene house itself was of questionable ownership, and the crime was an exercise in cruel but organized torture. And why did one commit torture, Benke asked himself. There were several reasons, he theorized as he began his perusal. There were satanic cults and sects that practiced torture, right? This didn't look like that. There were ancient civilizations that practiced sacrifice, but this didn't look like that either. Then there were the just plain sick fucks who did it just to get their rocks off, and there were plenty of those, but this didn't seem like that to him either. Finally, the only other reason he could think of to conduct torture was to get information. This reason, he determined quickly, is exactly what it looked like to him. The question was: what information did this poor slob's torturers think he had that they were willing to do what they did to him? Surely, he would have given it up if he had it. No one could resist what he went through, not unless they were protecting a child, or a fanatical cause of some sort. Wait. Was this a fanatical thing? Fanatics would do anything. They would go to extremes. And these people, both the ones who doled out such extreme punishment and the victim who took it, those could both be acts of a fanatical mindset.

Benke moved through the foyer, into the hallway between the split staircases leading to the floor above, and into the large gourmet kitchen. That's when he noticed again that there was some construction work being done off the family room; looked like a wall had been taken down and a home office area was being expanded. Moving into the area, he noted that the furniture had all been shoved to one side and that there was a significant amount of grit covering the drop cloths that had been spread over the items. There were also a couple of paint cans and some painting supplies there, but the walls still showed the spackled and plastered areas that had been sanded in preparation. Work in progress, thought Benke, noting also the wires and cables extending through various spots on the wall and along the baseboards. Looking at the wires, he recognized the wires for cable, phone, and internet—he'd seen the same wires in his house—but there were a couple of others he didn't recognize. Moving along, he made sure his eyes landed on every element. Up, down, along each ridge, over, under, and around, in front and behind, he scrutinized everything in a methodical search. He couldn't see fingerprints, of course, which reminded him that he should have called Mike Toscano to see if he'd gotten through that part of his work yet, which Toscano said he was going to do. Pulling out his cell phone, he punched up the number.

"You're a pain in the ass," said Toscano.

"Yeah, I know. My wife tells me that all the time."

"Well if you hound her when you want sex like you're hounding me for these prints, I'm surprised you get any at all."

"Huh," said Benke. "Maybe that's why. So do you have anything for me?"

"I'm working on it," Toscano said impatiently. "This isn't the only case I'm working on, Joe, and I promise you'll be the first person I call when have something. Oh, and Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't call me, I'll call you."

That went well, thought Benke, wondering what the holdup was with the damned prints. He pocketed his cell phone and moved on through the room, making notes and blowing off some spackle dust here and there when he thought he'd spotted something, but not encouraged by anything in particular. Nice furniture, he thought to himself as he lifted a drop cloth to take a closer look at one particular piece; looked heavy as hell. He lowered the drop cloth and was about to move on when he noticed something on the floor underneath the cabinet he'd just examined, some sort of dark spot, looked to be about half the size of a dime and barely noticeable against the dark wood floor. He got down closer, on one knee, and blew a few grains of dust away, noting that the spot looked tacky. "What do we have here?" he said to himself, knowing it wasn't ketchup. Something told him that the tiny spot of blood he'd just found did not belong to the victim.

* * * * *

Vice Director for Intelligence for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, J2, Brigadier General Hastings R. McCloskey had a break in his Friday schedule and he took some time to review what he'd been able to find about the W54 nuclear warhead. What motivated us as a country to produce such a despicable weapon was beyond him, but we did just about anything to stay ahead of the Russians during the Cold War so ultimately this wasn't that surprising. He wondered how in another thirty years we'd look back on the current assortment of diabolical killing methods we had developed, and he determined that they'd be looked upon as just as gruesome and sickening as this one.

The W54 was one of the smallest nuclear devices ever developed by the United States; that much he knew, designed by those brilliant scientists at Los Alamos who'd developed so many other scary toys. Those guys really drank the Kool-Aid, thought Hattie, using their great talents to produce weapons that could destroy humankind. How tragic and wasteful, yet we were still caught in the same conundrum and dedicating our best minds to destructive ideas. He shook his head because now it was worse. Back then, in the early days of the Manhattan Project and the subsequent Cold War thereafter, while mass destruction would have been a conscious and deliberate act, it was seemingly controlled by people who inherently did not want to engage in it. Now we had fanatical terrorists who would balk at nothing and had no reservations about killing a great many people, and who seemingly were making it their life's work. Despite the fact that the W54 was a very old weapon and probably simple in design compared to current devices, if one of those fanatics got hold of the plans he'd gotten from Tiny's friend, and which were currently displayed on his computer screen, they'd get close to their definition of _job satisfaction_. For the fanatics, it was probably that simplicity that made this specific weapon appealing to them, he speculated.

The W54 was an implosion device. Okay, he knew what that meant, which was that the fissionable material at the core would be set off by some other specially designed explosive whose detonation wave would move inward. This shock wave would be transmitted to the fissionable core and compress it, raising the density of the material to the point of supercriticality, at which point, _kaboom_. Four different models of the W54 were built for different uses, his research had revealed, and all in all thousands of the devices were built and deployed.

"Damn," said Hattie. That was a lot of units to account for. "Okay, who built the damned thing?" he asked himself aloud. He scrolled down into his brief to see if he could cut to that information. He found the words: _built by the United States Atomic Energy Commission_ , but the Atomic Energy Commission was a government agency, he thought. They probably contracted with a specific manufacturer, and it would be the manufacturer that would be able to tell him if the device could be built individually outside a specialized production facility. More than likely it would be some production supervisor who would know the answer to that question, someone who probably was long retired and had moved on making bird houses for the garden club.

Hattie kept reading, and his hopes got dimmer and dimmer as he read through the information. Not only did the AEC exist a long, long time ago, the organization seemed to have had plenty of problems, such as: insufficiently rigorous regulations and radiation protection standards, poor safety guidelines, and inadequate environmental protection standards. "This just gets better and better," he said, still talking to himself. Ultimately the AEC was abolished by Congress and its functions were assigned to the Energy Research and Development Administration and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. Moving further along on the time line, those organizations were also rolled up and taken over by the Department of Energy. With one agency swallowing the other, and the other, and the other, and with files, and computers, and records moving to different buildings with each swallow, who knew where the original information ended up? It was probably long buried and forgotten, Hattie figured, regardless of its security classification.

He shoved his mouse aside and declared, "What a clusterfuck." He pushed a button on his phone and called an investigator friend at the Defense Intelligence Agency that he'd known since their days together at the Naval Academy.

"DIA Special Agent Forrester," the man answered.

"Dave, this is Hattie."

"Are you calling about the barbeque this weekend, or about that Nazarov thing you asked me to check out?"

"What barbeque?"

"Oh. I guess you're calling about the Nazarov thing."

"Yeah. Did anything come up?"

"Not really, not for anyone living in Potomac. Are you sure about the spelling?"

"Pretty sure. What about UIF Enterprises?"

"Ditto. Where did you get those names?"

Hattie rubbed his head. "I'd rather not say right now."

"I did find something that might interest you on the subject of Uzbekistan," said Forrester.

"Which is?"

"Well, the longtime leader of the country, one Islam Karimov, died recently in 2016. The guy had been there forever, and was in power even before the country's independence from the Soviet Union in 1991."

"So he obviously had strong ties with the Soviets," said Hattie.

"Well, yes and no. The guy was a master at playing both sides, especially after 9/11 when the U.S. was making nice with Karimov to get him to let us use his airspace and an airbase in his country as a staging area against al Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan. There was a good deal of speculation that his stance against these groups was just a front for him to crack down on his own political enemies."

"Which he did?" Hattie asked.

"Oh yeah," Forrester responded. "One organization in particular stood out called the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, or IMU, which we designated as a terrorist organization in 2002. That's not to mean that Karimov was a saint," Forrester went on. "A couple of years after that the Human Rights Watch organization found that there were _thousands_ of Uzbek citizens in prison for practicing Islam outside of the state-approved establishment. These prisons were not nice places, Hattie. There were hundreds of reports of electric shock abuse, male prisoners being sodomized with bottles, male and female rape, fingernails being torn out... all kinds of torture to elicit self-incriminating statements which were then used to convict in the courts."

"Sounds like one group of terrorists fighting another," said Hattie.

"Pretty much," said Forrester. "And this IMU organization might be one of many vying for power in the vacuum created by Karimov's death."

"Have they had any success?" Hattie asked.

"Not really," Forrester replied. "They've been busy fighting across the border in Pakistan and there are indications that there is still a high degree of cooperation between the IMU and al Qaeda. Like a lot of terrorist groups, they like blowing shit up, and they seem to have an interest in acquiring nuclear capability."

_Hello._ "How so?" Hattie asked.

"Well, it gets complicated."

"I'm a smart guy, Dave. I'll ask if I don't understand."

"Okay, have you ever heard of Phillip Bobbitt?"

"You mean the guy who got his dingle cut off by his girlfriend back in the nineties?"

"That was John Bobbitt, brainiac. Phillip Bobbitt is a writer and professor at Columbia, and he's written several books."

"About?"

"Military strategy, for one thing. One of his books was titled _Terror and Consent_ where he says that in 2001 Osama bin Laden claimed that he had sufficient fissile material to build a nuclear bomb."

Hattie paused. He wasn't about to admit that he was having trouble following along, and he asked, "How did we get from this IMU organization in Uzbekistan to Osama bin Laden?"

"Good question," said Forrester. "Bin Laden said he got the material from the IMU, who in turn claim that they had obtained it from former Soviet stockpiles." There was another long pause, and after some time Forrester asked, "Hattie, are you still there?"

Hattie came back on. "So these Uzbek dudes had the fissionable material, but they didn't have the device," he offered as a conclusion.

"Sounds like it," said Forrester. "Is that what you're after?"

"I'm not sure what I'm after," said Hattie. "I'm just trying to help out a friend of mine—for now," he added.

"Well, I hope that helps," said Forrester, "and I hope it's nothing too serious."

"I will definitely find out," Hattie responded. "Thanks for your help, Dave."

"No problem. You know where I am if you need me."

"Sure. Ah, before I get off the line, what were you saying about a barbeque this weekend?"

"Oh, I'm surprised you don't know about it."

"Why is that?"

"Because it's at your house. Maybe you should talk to the wife more often."

* * * * *

It was late in the day Friday and Jake decided to take things into his own hands. Tiny was asleep on the couch, having fallen asleep for a couple of hours after being up all night and again all day looking after him and Lisa both. The police had called and sent over an investigator from the Major Crimes Division to take their statement, get a picture of Rachel, and ask about the circumstances of her disappearance. For Jake, the guilt ate him like acid. He knew they were wasting their time talking to the investigator, and indeed his head almost exploded when the investigator asked if there was any possibility that Rachel had run away. Likewise, Lisa almost came out of her chair but collapsed into a heaving mess instead.

The investigator looked at them oddly as he was conducting his interview. Their answers were short and abrupt and Jake could tell the guy was a little skeptical, wondering perhaps as to why they couldn't—or wouldn't—give him more to go on. However, the investigator didn't know about the kidnappers' warning about not talking to the police if they ever wanted to see Rachel again. Well, that horse was out of the barn, thought Jake, but he also knew there was no way he could trust anything a kidnapper said. For all he knew, Rachel could already be dead. If that was the case, however, the kidnappers' only negotiating chit would be gone. No, more than likely she was terrified but still alive, but giving the investigator that piece of information would not have improved their chances of seeing her again. What the kidnappers wanted were those W54 schematics, and as long as they believed that he still had them, Jake had to think he had something to bargain with. Luckily for him, Lisa seemed to understand that, but her holding back with the police investigator was a thin veneer and wasn't hard to see through.

"Have you heard from the kidnappers?" the investigator asked. "Is there a ransom demand?"

"We've not heard from them," said Jake, not telling him about the note he'd found nailed to his drafting table. "They're trying to scare us even more by not communicating."

"How do you know that, Mister Blackwell?" the investigator asked. "What is it you're not telling me?"

As for Scotty, he was upset, confused, and dumbfounded, and all of those emotions were strangers to him. He absolutely refused to give in to the intimidation and let the threat that he could also be taken affect his life. "There's not much I can do to get my sister back," he'd said to both Jake and Lisa, "but I'm not going to run and hide like scared rabbit either. I'm going to school, and I'm playing in that game tonight unless you stop me, but that's what I'm going to do. You know Rachel would agree with me." And he was right, and that's what he did, and he started at second base in his first senior varsity game that afternoon, and that's where Lisa was: watching him play—with a loaded gun in her handbag. She'd already texted that she could tell that Scotty was upset. The coaches took the way he whipped the ball to first base during warmups as good hustle, but she knew he was angry.

Jake sat across from the couch where Tiny was napping. He'd changed from his usual jeans and t-shirt attire into his camouflage hunting gear consisting of camo cargo pants, t-shirt, jacket, and hat. His face was striped with tactical face paint, with the backs of his hands likewise disguised. He carried his fully-loaded Beretta M9 on one hip, and one of his old Colt 1911s on the other side, the pockets on his cargo pants stuffed with extra magazines for each weapon. Sitting on the floor next to him was his AR-15, also fully loaded and outfitted with a Yukon titanium night vision scope, with two extra ten-round magazines clipped to his belt. Strapped to his ankle was a KA-BAR combat knife with a seven-inch blade that could cut through a man's wrist. Tape, zip ties, and bandages were in his jacket. As he sat there and listened to Tiny snore, he planned his mission in his head. After some time, he took in some fluids to make sure he was adequately hydrated and he woke Tiny with a single shake.

Tiny woke with a start and took a moment to reorient himself. Giving Jake a single once over, he said, "You're going under."

"I am," said Jake.

"When is this happening, Army?"

"Right after Lisa and Scotty get home," Jake replied. "I'll need you to take care of them for me."

* * * * *

The days were getting longer, he thought as he kneeled in the darkened room and waited for the sun to go down completely. In a meditative state, with his hands crossed in front of him, Jake flexed and unflexed his muscles and felt the trickle of perspiration beneath his cammies. He'd rid himself of all thoughts of seizures and blackouts, and his body was warm and ready for action. Lisa had been concerned, to say the least, but he'd countered her objection with honesty. "If my daughter dies because I didn't do everything within my power to stop that from happening, I'm not sure I could go on." He gazed squarely into her eyes. "I said nothing would happen to those kids, which means that I've already failed once."

"This wasn't your fault," said Lisa, trying to sway him from what he was doing.

"You told me to take care of those kids no matter what, and that's what I intend to do." He took her hand. "One way or another, you should prepare yourself that I might not come back." It was something he'd said to her before.

Trying to rationalize with him, she said, "This is different. The doctors—"

"The doctors have no idea what's causing the blackouts, which means they have no idea how to stop them. The next one could come anytime, when I'm walking across the street, or while I'm in the bathtub. Would you rather I worry about that than getting my daughter back?"

"You don't take baths," said Lisa.

"You know what I mean. I still have the anti-seizure medicine; it'll have to do."

"What do I tell Scotty?"

"We'll tell him the truth, which is that I'm going to get my daughter back. Bring him in here and I'll talk to him now."

"You don't have to bring me anywhere," Scotty called from the other side of the room. "Are you going to hurt those men who took Rachel?" he asked.

His son was turning into a man right in front of him, and Jake said, "I might, if that's what I have to do."

Scotty just nodded. "What do you want me to do, Dad?"

Jake glanced at Lisa. "I don't want to take the chance that the kidnappers will go after you and Mom next," he said. "I want the two of you to get in the car and go away for a couple of days so that even I don't know where you are. Plus, I don't want either of you to tell a single soul about this—not anyone, under any circumstances, no matter what. Do you understand?"

Scotty nodded again.

"Be sure you have Tiny's number," he said to Lisa. "You can communicate with him if you have to. He knows what I'm doing and he'll be there for you if you need him. I'll text you when I have Rachel back, but that might be the only time I will communicate with you."

Scotty didn't blink an eye. He looked at Lisa and asked, "Can we do that, Mom?"

Jake's gaze was still on her. "If that's what your father wants us to do," she said, and she gave Jake a look as stern as she'd ever given in her whole life. "You bring Rachel back, do you hear me?"

"I intend to." As Lisa and Scotty were headed for the door half an hour later, Jake asked Scotty, "How'd you do in the game today?"

"I struck out three times and made an error," Scotty replied. "I hope you do better than I did."

"So do I," said Jake.

Now, observing his surroundings from the darkened house, he could hear the crickets beginning to chirp and could see a few fireflies popping on and off out over the back deck. Being a moonless night, any lingering rays of light were gobbled up by a blanket of low hanging clouds stretching to the horizon and becoming one with the land. He took a post in a dark pool on the deck close to the house and took in the musty, humid air that hung over everything and dampened the sound of cars passing on Mount Ephraim Road. He put his AR-15 down on the deck in front of him and listened closely, noting only the sound of a barking dog off in the distance. That would be the Newberg's dog, thought Jake, the yappy little mutt. He listened closely and knew it would get quieter as the night grew longer. Sweating, he knew the dampness on his skin was trying to evaporate, but he didn't feel much of a cooling effect as the humidity trapped moisture against his skin. Beads of sweat rolled off his forehead and dripped onto the deck boards.

Looking, listening, he wondered how long it would take for someone to show up, and he knew someone would. Using Rachel to get the drawings back was only part of their plan; what they also wanted was him. Well, that was something he'd be more than happy to provide.

It had been just over twenty-four hours since Rachel had been taken and there had been no contact from anyone, no call, no other ransom note, nothing. But he knew the game they were playing. In Iraq, kidnapping was a common crime that wealthy Iraqi families and U.S. government contractors had to deal with on a regular basis. The kidnappers would take their hostage and go silent, a ploy intended to make the family members or company executives desperate to give them what they wanted. Days could go by before the kidnappers would make contact. But the tactic worked both ways. He was betting that whoever wanted the schematics would come looking for them when the tables were turned and their calls or demands were ignored. Kidnapping was a desperate act, and whoever took Rachel wanted those drawings in a desperate way. Desperate people made mistakes, however, and he'd be there to take advantage when that happened, even if took days. The tricky part was that he had to get to them before they did something to Rachel.

He looked through his night vision scope just to make sure it was operating properly and did a scan of the surroundings. All seemed normal. The Newberg's dog continued to yap away in the distance and it was enough to cover any other subtle noises around him. It stopped after a while. He did another sweep with the scope and decided to take a circuitous route behind the storage shed and further back behind the old barn which was on the opposite side of the property from the workshop. If anyone was coming after those drawings, they would come through the woods just like they had the first time, he figured. Or, they could take the direct route and try to sneak the thirty yards down his driveway, which they would also access off Mount Ephraim Road. The first route was longer and harder, but it provided cover. The second route was shorter and more direct, but any intruders would be plainly visible if someone was looking for them. Jake knew he needed to be prepared for either path of invasion.

He checked his watch, noting by the luminous hands that it was just past 10:30 p.m. The night was about as dark as it was going to get, and he knew that his cammies and face paint would make him almost invisible until someone literally stumbled upon him. He decided to take a position inside the bank of lilac bushes behind the storage shed which was halfway between the workshop and the barn, the barn being at the edge of the vegetable garden, which itself was positioned about seventy-five yards from the house. From that vantage point, he commanded a view of all of the tactical approach paths he'd just reviewed in his head.

Taking an initial sitting position with his knees partly bent, he knew he could stay like that for a couple of hours before his ass got so numb that he'd have to shift and realign his body. Listening, breathing steadily, it was the only sound he could hear outside of a few chipmunks that scurried back and forth around him, clearly upset that some big dude had parked his fat ass in their territory. The humidity didn't get any better, and the occasional drop of sweat falling onto the bed of dried lilac leaves turned into irrigation. He stayed like that until 12:45, at which time he took a position on his stomach and did another sweep through his night vision scope. He heard nothing unusual, surprised by the number of cars that passed on Mount Ephraim Road at that time of night. The breeze picked up at about 1:30 in the morning, causing the lilac bushes to stir steadily which made it difficult to hear anything else around him. He moved out from inside the bank of bushes and decided to stand and stretch for a while, which he did while staying hidden by the storage shed. At 2:25, he took a piss and took a drink from the bottle of water he'd taken with him, watching three deer that seemed to materialize out of thin air. They stomped at something and snorted, and then skittishly bounded away as quickly as they'd appeared. They were downwind of him he figured, and his scent alone was enough to rattle them. He hoped it wouldn't be that way for any humans that might come his way.

Trying to stay alert, he stood like a statue for the next ninety minutes, thinking about Rachel and what she must be going through. He thought about Lisa and Scotty also, but knew that by comparison they were fine. At 4:15 in the morning, he could see a few stars here and there and he knew that the low-hanging clouds that had been above him were being pushed out by another weather system on its way in. Slowly, the blackness in which he'd been engulfed all night turned a shade lighter and objects that were totally hidden suddenly had shape to them. He lifted his AR-15 to his shoulder and did a scan of the landscape one more time. That's when he saw them, two of them, breaking through the tree line at the edge of the vegetable garden and stomping right across the rows of early lettuce and radishes and on through the other seed beds. They moved slowly but together, clearly not caring that they were leaving evidence of their presence by walking all over the soft dirt. Clearly, they did not have military training, thought Jake. Anyone who did would have stayed inside the tree line and would have gone around the vegetable garden under cover. They would also have taken turns on point, scanning with each advance and moving ahead once it was determined that no enemies or obstacles were in front of them. Not so these two, plowing through the dirt side by side, seemingly convinced that they were totally hidden by the darkness. Dumbasses, thought Jake. And he waited.

It didn't take long for them to cross the garden and make their way toward where the worn graveled pathway split three ways: one split went toward the barn, another to the other side of the yard toward the workshop, and another toward the storage shed where he was situated and where it continued to the house. He wondered which split they would take, and wondered further if they would take separate paths. He prepared himself for whatever might happen. He didn't see any weapons, but that didn't mean that they weren't armed.

His breathing was heavy now, and he concentrated on controlling it so that it was slow and steady, the deep breaths providing oxygen to his brain and his heart, slowing down the beating in his chest. The sweat was pouring off his forehead and soaking through his t-shirt. He let it drip, concentrating on the figures that were moving toward him. He slowly released the catch loop on his Beretta M9 while keeping the AR-15 positioned on his shoulder. He then reassured himself that his KA-BAR knife was still positioned on his ankle—like, where else would it be? His nostrils flared. They were coming closer, and he could see them split up. _Shit_ , he thought to himself, he'd have to take them down one at a time, which wasn't a problem, but it might scare one of them off and increased the chances that he would not complete his mission. A flashlight came on suddenly, and then another, and he could hear them talking to each other, low voiced, too low for him to determine what they were saying. It didn't much matter, however, because the flashlight beams swung up and around, landing on the workshop and the house in turn, and then sweeping his way. It was all he could do to step back behind the edge of the storage shed so that the beams missed him, and he wondered if the sound of that single movement, just the sound of his fabric against the edge of the shed, would be enough to alert them that he was present. For a good recon scout, it would be. Not so these two jackasses, evidently.

Jake watched the flashlight beams cover the grounds and he heard a few more muffled words before the flashlights clicked off and the intruders separated. One of them took the graveled path toward the workshop, which is where they'd left the note about Rachel, the other took the circuitous route toward the storage shed and was coming right at him. Jake held his breath as the man's footsteps came into earshot. Quickly, he formulated a plan in his head. No matter how skillful he was in subduing his approaching enemy, and even if he was able to prevent him from calling out, Jake knew that the sound of the takedown alone would be enough to alert the second one as to what was happening. It was anyone's guess at that point as to whether the second one would come to his partner's aide—which Jake would have preferred—or whether he would turn and run knowing that their mission had been compromised. Twenty yards now, and approaching slowly. His thoughts passed in milliseconds, and Jake figured that if the second invader started running, he would probably retreat on the same path he'd come in on. Ten yards, feet scuffling against the gravel. Five yards, ten feet, five feet, Jake still didn't know if the man was armed or not. He stepped out from behind the shed and took two steps forward, planting the butt of his AR-15 squarely into the man's nose, breaking it. The guy went down like a stone and Jake was on top of him in an instant with a quick knuckle jab into the man's larynx and another swift blow to the side of his head, knocking him out.

Jake froze, not making another sound, but just as he'd predicted the second intruder stopped in his tracks and called out with something that Jake didn't understand. He called out again and then flipped on his flashlight. Jake dropped to the ground, but it was too late. The light beam found him and the man started running, as expected. What Jake didn't expect was that the man would be on a cell phone, and it dawned on him that the guy had probably been on the cell phone the entire time. Instead of the two intruders talking to each other, they were probably talking to someone else on their team. The second thing Jake didn't expect was that instead of retreating on the same path he'd come in on, the intruder ran forward toward the driveway that led out to Mount Ephraim Road. It wasn't two seconds later that Jake spotted a pair of headlights of an SUV that screeched to a stop at the mouth of the driveway. Now he knew who they were talking to on the cell phone. He dropped to one knee and leveled his AR-15, getting a clear view of both the SUV and the man running toward it. Clearly panicked, the intruder turned and Jake dove to the ground again as the guy let go with three shots from an automatic pistol. Pulling the AR-15 back to his shoulder and positioning the crosshairs, Jake put two rounds into the passenger side door of the SUV, and, thinking in a split second that he needed these assholes alive if he was going to find out where Rachel was, he fired two more rounds in quick succession, hitting the intruder in the ass with one of them. A stream of blood literally burst from the guy's backside and he stumbled and fell but managed to scramble to the SUV where he yanked desperately on the door handle. He literally dove into the vehicle as it screeched off into the darkness.

With his heart pounding, Jake lowered his weapon and took off his sweat-soaked hat, wiping more sweat from his eyes as rivulets of it poured down his forehead. He waited for his pulse to slow down, hoping his sudden exertion wouldn't cause him to black out. After a couple of minutes, concluding that he was none the worse for wear, he went over to the prone body lying a few feet away. He put two fingers to the man's neck and determined that he was still alive. He found the guy's flashlight lying nearby and turned it on the man's face, quite surprised to see that he was looking at Ruslan Nazarov.

Chapter 8... Working On Instinct

Saturday, April 26th, 8:30 a.m. The first forty-eight hours had come and gone and Benke knew this was not going to be an open-and-shut case. Not only was he still striking out on the name Ruslan P. Nazarov, he was having equally bad luck coming up with anything on UIF Enterprises. Nothing had come in from the state or federal bureaus on either of those. He was scheduled to have the weekend off and was also scheduled to be in court on Monday morning on another case that was coming to trial, and his boss had told him to take a valued Saturday and Sunday off and let the thing lie for a couple of days. That would have made his wife happy, but Benke came in anyway. "I'll be home for lunch," he'd said to her, but she gave him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich just in case he didn't make it. Now, Benke went through his notes and pulled up the report that had finally come through from Mike Toscano. The date and time on the email read Friday, 8:47 p.m. Toscano must have stayed late the night before in order to get it to him before the weekend. Good old Mike, thought Benke.

Toscano had finally gotten to examining the fingerprints that were found at the scene and other parts of the house. As he'd predicted, there were prints from nine different individuals besides those of the victim himself, most of them coming from the part of the house that was undergoing renovation. Toscano had run those prints against the usual state and federal databases and four of them had come back with no match. While that was not good news, the prints for those four were relegated to the construction area with no matching prints found in other parts of the house or the murder scene itself. Agreeing with what Toscano had already said, Benke figured they belonged to workers doing the renovation work. There were probably some business cards, or work orders, or other information lying around which would reveal the names of the companies doing the renovation work, and hopefully he'd be able to track them down and match the four sets of unknown prints to employees of those firms.

Of the remaining five sets of prints that Toscano had run through the various databases, two of them came back as belonging to individuals who had had DUI arrests in the last five years. Toscano included their mugshots and whatever contact information was on file. Okay, those individuals would be easy enough to find, but like the others their prints were relegated to the construction area. That meant six of the nine sets of prints probably belonged to construction workers, and Benke figured that his killer, or killers, was not among that group. That meant three sets of prints appeared at the specific crime scene as well as other parts of the house. One of them belonged to a woman who had gone through the naturalization process for becoming a U.S. citizen four years earlier. Benke took one look at her picture and thought instantly: cleaning lady. Of course her fingerprints would be all over the house.

That left two sets of prints that also appeared both at the crime scene in the basement and in other parts of the house. One of them was all over—as in _really_ _all over_ —as in on the appliances, on the TV remote, on the toothbrush, the toilet handle, everywhere and anywhere that a person who lived in a place would leave his or her prints. Okay, those belonged to the deceased, Benke figured, but he was shocked when he read that they did not. "Damn," he said aloud. "So who the hell was the dead guy?" He kept reading.

The final set of prints that appeared at the specific crime scene and also in other parts of the house, including the construction area, belonged to a Jake S. Blackwell of Dickerson, Maryland. Toscano indicated that the guy's prints were on the front door, on the coffee table books about Uzbekistan, on the medicine cabinet in the master bedroom, and most importantly, his thumbprint and his right index fingerprint were on the barbell bar that was stained with the deceased's blood and found near the body. _Huh_ , thought Benke. He looked at Blackwell's picture and noted that the guy was a former Army Ranger who had served multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. _Huh_ , Benke thought again. The guy was a trained killer.

* * * * *

Good thing the hotel room came with a free breakfast. Scotty just pushed his cereal around and Lisa wasn't doing much better. "Why did Dad send us away?" he asked again even though Lisa had done her best to explain it to him twice before. "And don't give me the same answer you gave me last time, Mom. I need you to tell me the truth."

So much for trying to shelter the boy, thought Lisa. He was just like his father, always preferring to face things pretty much head on. "He's trying to protect us," she said.

"From what?"

"He's not quite sure from what, but he doesn't want to put us in a position where we could be taken the same way Rachel was taken."

"But why does he not want to know where we are?"

Lisa hesitated, wondering if Scotty was old enough, mature enough to hear the truth. She glanced from side to side, making sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. Jake had made her as paranoid as he was, she thought quickly. Scotty's eyes were focused on her. He had that itchy look, and she could tell that she wouldn't be able to control him for very much longer in his life. She decided that he deserved to know the situation. "Your father doesn't want us to be used against him in case he's captured," she said. "If he really doesn't know where we are, he won't be able to reveal our location in case he's tortured or drugged."

Scotty understood her point instantly. "Do you think Rachel is still alive?" he asked.

The question hit Lisa like a lightning bolt and tears came to her eyes. "Your father thinks that as long as he has the information that the kidnappers are after, she'll be safe."

"What about the police?" Scotty asked logically. "What are they going to do?"

Lisa wiped away her tears. "There's not much they can do. First of all, we haven't heard from the kidnappers so the police don't have anything to go on. That, and we've been warned that if we involve the police we'll never see Rachel again." That was enough to make her burst into sobs and Scotty did his best to console her.

"What is it the kidnappers are after?" Scotty asked. "And why is Dad involved with this?"

Lisa looked up. She knew that tone. She'd heard it a thousand times before, but it had always come from Jake. Scotty's eyes were drilling into her. He was ice and he wanted to know. She took a deep breath and sat up straight. "Your father came across some blueprints on how to build a miniature nuclear bomb. He thinks someone is planning to do something terrible with it."

Scotty immediately jumped ahead of her. "And the kidnappers want to exchange Rachel for the blueprints. Why doesn't Dad just give them what they want?"

"Your dad no longer has the blueprints," said Lisa. "He put them back where he found them right away. He thinks the kidnappers are now after him to make sure he doesn't tell anyone else about what he found."

"Someone like the FBI," Scotty ascertained. "So Dad is in danger too." Lisa didn't elaborate. "But what about Rachel? How is he going to get her back?"

"Your father is convinced that they will come looking for him and those blueprints—"

"Blueprints he doesn't have," Scotty interjected.

"Well, sort of," said Lisa. "He's convinced that they are going to use Rachel to get to him."

"So they can kill him," said Scotty, "and probably Rachel too as soon as she is of no more use to them."

Lisa could hear the anger in his voice. "I'm afraid so," she said. "But your father wants to get to them first. He's convinced that it's our safest course of action."

"It doesn't sound that safe to me," said Scotty. "What do you think?"

Flustered now, "I don't know what to think," Lisa replied, "but your father knows what he's doing when it comes to things like this."

"What's he going to do if he's successful and gets to them first as he intends to do?"

Lisa looked Scotty dead in the eye and said, "Whatever he has to do to get Rachel back."

Scotty seemed to get the message. "But what about the blackouts?"

"He's taking his chances with that. He has his seizure medicine; hopefully it will prevent anything from happening again."

Scotty nodded thoughtfully. "What did you mean just now when you said _sort of?_ Does Dad have those blueprints or not?"

"He took a picture of them with his cell phone before he returned them," Lisa replied.

Scotty stirred his cereal some more and said, "This is too risky. I know Dad knows what he's doing, but if he gets another one of those blackout attacks his whole plan could go fall apart. Then what?" He looked at Lisa squarely and said, "If that happens we may lose him and Rachel both." Scotty pushed his cereal away and got up from the table. "He needs our help."

"Scotty, where are you going? Your father gave us specific instructions—"

"He needs our help," Scotty repeated. "Are you just gonna sit there, or are you coming with me to help Dad?"

* * * * *

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and Marisol Rivera draped her best silk summer scarf around her head to keep the rushing air from messing up her hairdo. Tiny glanced at her and said, "If you want to close the window we can turn on the air conditioning."

"Leave it open for a minute," she responded as Tiny guided the Explorer over some rough pavement. "You put on too much cologne."

Frowning when he saw her face, Tiny said, "You don't like it?"

"You smell like a pimp. What is that?" she asked, holding the scarf to her nose.

"It's something your daughter gave me for Christmas. The name sounded classy."

"Oh, now she's _my_ daughter," said Marisol, then changing the subject, "Where are we going again?"

"We're going to a cookout at the home of Brigadier General Hattie McCloskey. Do you remember who that is?"

"But of course I do. He's Pete and Eileen's son. I'll bet we haven't seen them in twenty years, ever since they moved to Florida."

"That's right," said Tiny. "And do you know what Hattie McCloskey is doing now?"

Marisol looked at her husband who was beaming with pride. "I don't," she said, "but I'm sure you would be very happy to tell me, cariño."

"Pete's son is Vice Director for Intelligence for the Joint Chiefs of Staff," Tiny said smugly.

"Oh my," said Marisol. "I'll bet Pete and Eileen are very proud that he made it all the way to Chief. That sounds like a very high position."

"He's not quite a Chief," Tiny clarified, seeing that she didn't quite get it. "He's on the staff of the Joint Chiefs of Staff."

"I see," said Marisol. "That still sounds like an important position."

"It's a _very_ important position," said Tiny. "And he's invited _us_ to his home. He called me _personally_." Tiny was smiling from ear to ear.

"You're a very important man, cariño, but you should have worn a better shirt."

* * * * *

Jake twisted the stick and tightened the rope tied to Nazarov's wrists at one end and his ankles at the other. The sling itself was virtually inescapable, one he learned while guarding a group of captured Taliban fighters outside Kandahar. The more one turned the stick, the closer the victim's wrists and ankles were pulled toward each other from behind. It was Afghan soldiers who were doing the interrogating at the time, and he remembered how they had no reservations about pulling a man's arms right out of his sockets if he didn't give them the answers they wanted. Up to now, Jake was a little more benevolent than that, being satisfied with causing extreme pain as opposed to debilitating injury, not that he wouldn't go there in time. He doubled up on the pain infliction, however, by making Nazarov kneel on broken acorn shells. It didn't sound like it would be very effective, but in time it would cause shooting pains right up a man's spine that could drive him to the point of collapse. Jake waited purposely until Nazarov looked at him before taking a drink of water right in front of him. It was going on eight hours now and it looked like Nazarov was beginning to break. He took a separate bottle of water and poured some over Nazarov's lips. The guy would be no good to him if he went unconscious.

Jake looked at his watch. It was 2:45 on Saturday afternoon, and late April in the D.C. area had a way of going from pleasant to sweltering seemingly in minutes. In t-shirt and camouflage cargo pants, his face was still tigered in camo paint. They were in the woods behind his house, deep enough within his 300 acres there that he knew no one would find them. He knew the spot well, having built a couple of deer stands about quarter of a mile apart, along with a couple of lean-tos to use as shelters in case he and Scotty got caught in the rain during a hunt. They'd thrown some pallets down under one of them along with a few pieces of scrap plywood so that anyone under the lean-to could be off any wet ground. That's where he and Nazarov were now, having all kinds of fun.

Jake reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a protein bar. "Hungry?" he asked, chewing off a big hunk of it. Nazarov didn't answer and Jake turned the stick another half turn. Again, Nazarov didn't say anything, so Jake gave it another turn and he could feel the tension in the sling tighten up. Behind him, Nazarov's hands were about a foot from his ankles and there wasn't much more tightening that could be done before his shoulders were dislocated. "We could be here for quite a while," said Jake, "or until you die. All you have to do to stop this is tell me where you took my daughter."

"So that what?" Nazarov spat back. "So that you could kill me and go after her. You will never see her again."

Jake kicked him in the stomach so that the natural motion of bending forward with the blow caused Nazarov's shoulders to crack and click and the tendons in his upper arms began to tear. Emotionless, Jake felt nothing, like he was swatting a bothersome fly. Chewing off another hunk of the protein bar, he pressed his foot onto Nazarov's thigh and held it there until he could see blood oozing onto the plywood from Nazarov's knee. Nazarov screamed, and when he was done Jake said, "No one will hear you. Now where is my daughter?" He took out his KA-BAR knife and put it down on the plywood in front of Nazarov, which clearly got his attention.

"Why were you coming after me?" Jake asked as Nazarov's eyes stayed focused on the knife.

Breathing heavily, snorting and sweating now, Nazarov spat at him and said, "Like you don't know. The drawings, you took them and you did something with them." His accent was heavier now and Jake took notice of it, trying to place it.

Jake took a drink of water and swirled it around in his mouth before spitting it in Nazarov's face. It was pure humiliation. "I gave them back to you. I didn't know what they were."

"Yes you did," Nazarov fired back angrily. "I could see it in your eyes. No one besides us can know we have those drawings."

Now he was getting someplace, thought Jake. Nazarov was beginning to let things slip. "Would you like some more water?" Jake asked him.

Nazarov lifted his eyes, the rage in them evident. "Yes," he said calmly.

Jake poured the bottle out on the ground. He reached back and gave the stick another turn and Nazarov's back arched like a crossbow. "Who is us?" Jake asked. "You said no one besides us can know we have those drawings. Tell me who us is."

"Fuck you."

Jake took that in stride but reached back and punched Nazarov in his already-broken nose. The pain had to be excruciating. "Let's go at this from another direction. Who was the man that was killed at your house? Is that what happens to people who fuck up in your organization?"

"Fuck you," again.

Jake picked up the knife. Picking a spot where he knew no major arteries were present, he poked the tip into Nazarov's leg, barely breaking the skin. He sat there and watched as blood oozed down over the leg and onto the plywood. "That will bleed for a while before it clots up," said Jake. "And before I leave you here like this tonight, I'll poke another hole in the other leg so that there will be enough blood for the animals to sniff you out. Did you know that raccoons carry rabies? You'd be surprised how much damage five or six of them can do. Oh, and I hear there's a family of bobcats on the property. I don't think either of those can kill you, however. You should know that when they are clawing and biting at you."

Jake sat down and calmly finished his protein bar. He could see that Nazarov was suffering, but he could also see that Nazarov might go the distance before he revealed where Rachel was. He debated his next move, but knew that he could not afford for Nazarov to pass out. He opened another bottle of water—his last one—and poured half of it down Nazarov's throat. Reviewing the scenario in his head, Jake knew he'd been right when he'd predicted that the people to whom Nazarov had just referred to as "us" would come after him to get the blueprints back. But why the two-pronged strategy in doing so? Why take Rachel to get them back, and then come after him directly to get them back as well? No one would do that. It would be one strategy or the other. Looking at Nazarov who was now leaking spit on himself, Jake was certain now that Nazarov had not told his comrades that the drawings had been returned. Rachel's kidnapping and the attack last night by Nazarov and his friends were not connected incidents. Jake chuckled to himself. Nazarov had gone rogue. He was in deep shit with his own people for his carelessness and letting someone outside their group become aware—possibly—of what they were planning. Last night's attack was Nazarov's attempt at saving his own ass. Nazarov would have killed him and would have bragged to his own people afterward how he'd gotten the blueprints back, hoping that would save him from the consequences of his carelessness, which was probably a death sentence, Jake figured. Meanwhile, the comrades were operating under the assumption that he, Jake, had the W54 blueprints and they'd taken Rachel in their own attempt to get them back. The comrades still wanted him, Jake, and the blueprints, and that was something he could supply.

He walked over to Nazarov and said, "How are you feeling?"

Nazarov responded with a raspy, "Suck my dick," and Jake kicked him in the nuts just because he felt like it. Fifteen minutes later when Nazarov stopped puking all over himself, Jake undid the sling and let him collapse onto the plywood-covered pallets where he rolled into a fetal position and coughed and gagged on his own mucous. Jake stood there watching as Nazarov almost turned himself inside out, having no remorse whatsoever for what he'd done to the man, and actually restraining himself from causing even more suffering. He pulled Nazarov into a sitting position and grabbed him by the jaw, forcing Nazarov to look at him. "This is only the beginning of what I'm going to do to you if anything has happened to my daughter. You'll beg me to die before I'm through with you, do you understand me?"

There was no fuck you this time, and Jake figured Nazarov was starting to get the message. He gave Nazarov the rest of the water and said, "About those blueprints... there were five separate drawings in the envelope. Do you know if those five comprise a complete set?"

"You are asking me if we can build a nuclear device from those drawings," Nazarov said in response. "You will know the answer to that question soon enough."

He was getting nowhere, thought Jake, but considered Nazarov's answer to be in the affirmative. He waited another minute until Nazarov was relatively composed and he pulled two cell phones from the side pocket of his cargo pants. One of them belonged to Nazarov. "Call your people," he said. "Tell them you're bringing me in along with the drawings." Nazarov was either confused or resistant, but Jake didn't care which. He pulled his Beretta M9 from his hip and put the barrel to Nazarov's forehead. "Now," he said. When Nazarov didn't move fast enough, Jake pulled the pistol from Nazarov's head, put it between his legs, and fired. It took Nazarov a few seconds to determine that his penis and his testicles were still intact, and he took the phone when Jake offered it again and made the call. Nazarov rattled off a few lines in a language Jake didn't understand, and he wondered if Nazarov had actually said what he'd told him to say. "Understand this," said Jake as he yanked Nazarov to his feet. "If you try and fuck with me this weekend isn't going to go well for you."

Chapter 9... The Animal Inside

Saturday, April 26th, 3:47 p.m. Tiny was holding a Bud Light in one hand and a spare rib in the other, jabbing it in the air as he made his point. He was in the center ring, and despite the fact that Tiny was a noncommissioned Warrant Officer as a Marine Huey pilot, the colonels and generals who were listening to him—and there were several—were giving him his due. They all knew what it took to fly over a hundred and sixty combat missions in a Huey, and Tiny had cred. At the moment, the commander of Marine Helicopter Squadron 1 headquartered out of Quantico, Virginia, Colonel Aston B. Renfro was saying to him, "I've got two AH-1 SuperCobras on the base right now on stopover. If you can get half a day off from work and want to take a ride in the next day or two, I'd be happy to have one of our training officers take you up for a spin. Be sure that you have a light lunch that day," Renfro added with a wink.

Patting his pot belly, "You'd probably have to coat me in butter to get me into the thing," said Tiny. "I'm afraid those days are long gone for me."

Listening to the conversation, Hattie was content to play host for a while, but eventually the guests got into the swing of things and began helping themselves so that he could come out from behind the barbeque apron. He waited until a couple of rounds of burgers and brews had been consumed and he made the rounds among his Pentagon buddies. When his wife joined the other women who'd become tired of listening to their husbands talk about military hardware, he eased off to the side and asked Tiny to join him by the swing set.

"I was wondering when you were going to cut me from the herd," said Tiny. "You're much slicker at the small talk than your dad ever was."

"I think I take after my mom when it comes to that," said Hattie. "Dad was a bull in a china shop. Still is."

"I'm afraid I am too," said Tiny. "Would you mind telling me why I'm here? Not that I'm not thankful, by the way. It's good to talk to grown men once in a while who've had some of the same experiences I have. I'm afraid I don't get these... what are they called... Mentenials?"

Hattie smiled. "Millennials," he said. "Try making an army out of them."

"No thanks," said Tiny. "I'll leave that to you." He sipped his Bud Light and said, "What's up, Hattie?"

Hattie started with, "You know I'm J2 Intelligence, don't you?"

"Of course."

"And you know that I have to constantly evaluate information that comes my way in terms of the negative or destructive effect it might have on our country."

"I would expect nothing less," said Tiny. His eyes held Hattie's, which suddenly seemed to turn dark.

Not pulling any punches, Hattie said, "I'm particularly interested in how well you know this Blackwell fellow that you introduced me to."

Tiny paused, trying to figure out why Hattie was so skeptical about Jake. "He's a warrior and a hero, and he's fiercely devoted to his family and his country. He's one of us, Hattie."

Hattie nodded and said, "That's good enough for me, Tiny."

"Then what's with the suspicion?"

"Those schematics you two showed me are causing me to lose sleep at night."

Tiny chuckled. "I imagine a lot of the stuff you see causes you to lose sleep at night."

"Amen to that," said Hattie. "But this is also causing my stomach to gurgle. When I lose sleep and my stomach gurgles, I tend to get nervous."

"You're falling apart, Hattie. How can I make you feel better?"

"By bringing your friend back to see me so I can ask him about the Uzbek fellow he talked about. I think Blackwell said the man's name was Nazarov."

Tiny was quick on the draw. "Holy crap," he said. "You discovered something about those drawings, didn't you?" Hattie didn't respond but Tiny persisted, "I know when you're struggling with something, and you're making the same face now that you did as a kid when you couldn't get the grip right on your curve ball. If you want my help you need to come clean, Hattie. I don't operate in the dark, unlike you counter-intelligence types, evidently."

"I may not need your help," said Hattie.

"Then why the hell am I here?" Tiny shot back.

Hattie kicked a stone from under his foot and said, "Have you ever heard of the term, It take two to tango?"

"What, we're dancing now?"

Hattie grinned. "No, we're not."

"Then what are you trying so hard not to tell me?"

Hattie took a deep breath and said, "I talked to a friend of mine over at DIA and he gave me some information on a possible Uzbek connection to those schematics. It's proving to be quite concerning."

"Concerning to who?" Tiny asked.

"It's concerning to whom."

"Sue me. To whom? Tell me what your spook friend had to say."

"It seems there's a terrorist faction inside Uzbekistan called the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, or IMU for short, that is reputed to have a stash of fissionable material—plutonium, I assume—that they somehow pilfered during the days when Uzbekistan was under Soviet control." Hattie let it hang there for effect. "Plutonium doesn't do anyone any good unless they have a device to put it in, Tiny."

"And a device doesn't do anyone any good unless they have the material to make it go boom," Tiny said back. "Two to tango."

Hattie touched his nose with his index finger. "And I need to talk to your friend Blackwell about Nazarov. I need to make sure we don't have a lone wolf in our midst getting ready to take down the Empire State Building or something."

Tiny duplicated Hattie's move of a few moments earlier and kicked at the dirt.

"What?" said Hattie. He took a moment as he tried to figure out why Tiny was dodging him. "I need to talk to Blackwell, Tiny, and I'd like to talk to him soon," he said sternly.

"Uh, you might have to wait on that, Hattie. His daughter has been kidnapped, and it's got something to do with those drawings."

"Oh, God," said Hattie, but he could tell that Tiny had more to say.

"Jake is going after the people that took her, and he might be off the grid for a while."

"What do you mean, off the grid? He can't just disappear."

"Think what you want, but if he doesn't want to be found you can forget about it."

"The hell with that," Hattie said threateningly. "I've got the resources of the entire Defense Intelligence Agency at my disposal. I want Blackwell, Tiny, and I want this Nazarov guy even more. If you can't help me with that I'll find him on my own."

"Yeah, well, good luck with that, Hattie. Let me know how that turns out for you."

* * * * *

"Yes dear, I promise I'll be home for dinner... Yes, I know I had the weekend off, but there are just a couple of more things I need to take care of before I head out... That's okay, don't worry about me. You do what you need to do and I'll wait for you if I get home before you do... No problem; we'll go to Mama Lina's if it's too late to cook dinner... Yes, bye now... I love you too, sweetheart." Benke hung up the phone and thought: if he was his wife, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He couldn't begin to calculate how many hours he'd caused her to wait for him over the years.

One of the things he needed to take care of was reacquainting himself with the facts of a case in which he was supposed to testify on Monday morning. It had taken its sweet time coming to trial but it was finally beginning and Benke wanted to be prepared. It took him a good part of the afternoon to review the facts and anticipate all the conceivable questions the defense lawyer would ask in trying to establish reasonable doubt—or trying to discredit him; that came with the territory—but his mind kept drifting back to the Meetinghouse Road case. That was what he was calling it now because he couldn't call it the Nazarov case seeing as the dead guy wasn't Nazarov, if there even was a Nazarov.

Driving up Route 28 now toward the town of Dickerson, Benke reviewed what he had so far in this baffling case. He had a body of some poor bastard who been tortured and ultimately beaten to death, but he didn't know the poor bastard's name or anything else about him. He had a name, Ruslan P. Nazarov, but a fat load of good that was doing him; it didn't seem as if there was any such person. He also had nothing on UIF Enterprises which was the name to which the four cars in the garage were registered—and here he would normally have said deceased's garage, but he didn't know now if the deceased lived in the house—and he was also pretty sure now that UIF Enterprises existed in name only and was a total fabrication. Sometime after his court appearance on Monday he would track down the owners of the six sets of fingerprints Mike Toscano had found in other parts of the house where the murder had taken place, but he was pretty sure those would amount to nothing as well. The only scrap of information that seemingly amounted to anything was what he was sniffing down now as he made his way up Route 28 past Darnestown. Driving leisurely, he was reminded of how rural this part of Montgomery County still was. Benke took a whiff of the country air and thought some of the places he was passing smelled like old money.

It had been easy enough to track down the address and phone number for Jake S. Blackwell on Mount Ephraim Road, and Benke had called twice earlier in the day, but there had been no answer and his calls were picked up by an answering machine. The greeting was pleasant, a woman's voice, probably the wife, that said, "This is the home of Jake, Lisa, Rachel, and Scotty," etc., etc. It sounded like this Blackwell fellow was a family man, probably a happy one from the sound of the woman's voice, and Benke wondered all the more why Blackwell's fingerprints would be all over the place at such a gruesome murder scene. Finally reaching Dickerson, Benke took a right onto Mount Ephraim Road and slowly made his way along until he spotted the mailbox clearly labeled with the name Blackwell. He eased into the entrance to the property there, and it was obvious that it was a large piece of land with the main house set back and off to the side of a long gravel driveway, with three other buildings located close by. The first was a large garage type building, outside of which was parked an F-150 pickup truck—a working truck, Benke noticed quickly—with a magnetic sign on the driver's side door that read Jake S. Blackwell, Construction, Remodeling, Handyman. About twenty yards behind the house was a storage shed, and then off in the distance down a sloping tract of land was a rust-colored barn with an attached silo that looked to be quite old.

Okay, thought Benke, everything made sense. The house on Meetinghouse Road was going through some remodeling and this Blackwell guy was doing the work. Benke got out of his car and took in the country air; nice place to live, he thought. He made his way to the front door and rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang it again and waited a couple of minutes with the same result. He looked around again. Why did he have the feeling that someone was watching him?

He made his way across the yard and looked into the pickup truck, pulling on the door handle to see if it was open. It was. Looking inside, this guy must do good work, thought Benke. The truck was neat as a pin and not cluttered up with junk and mud that he supposed a working truck for a remodeling guy could be. He shut the door and walked to the garage type structure and looked through one of the window panes on the pull-down door there, noticing immediately that it wasn't a garage now, but a professional woodworking shop. Okay, made sense, he continued to think. The guy must do okay; that shop looked like it cost a pretty penny.

Huh. Okay then. Four people in the family and none of them in sight on a Saturday afternoon. No other vehicles visible. He guessed it was possible. Maybe they were away for the weekend. He gave another sweep of the property. Something didn't feel right. He couldn't place it. He looked down the slope past the barn and spotted the large vegetable garden set down at the edge of the woods there. Was there something down there? He looked at his watch. It would take him at least an hour to get home from there and he decided he could check it out another time. The wife was waiting and he owed her a dinner out. Something wasn't right, though. Another time.

Benke got back into his car and made the three-point turn and headed back up the sloping gravel driveway toward Mount Ephraim Road. He stopped and looked both ways and was about to take a left back down toward Route 28 when he looked down and spotted what he thought looked like a trail of blood at the edge of the roadway. He'd seen enough of it in his day to know. Putting the car into park, he walked to the spot and noted that a significant amount had been spilled. The blood trail appeared, and then disappeared just as quickly as if someone had poured it from a pitcher. He got down and examined it more closely. It wasn't fresh, but it wasn't dry either, still tacky, which meant it was recent. Reaching into his back pocket, Benke pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it into the tacky spill. Maybe a deer had been struck by a car and had bounded off, he thought to himself. It was entirely possible in this setting, but somehow he doubted it. And maybe it was a coincidence that this significant amount of spilled blood turned up outside the home of a former Army Ranger that he wanted to question in connection with a murder investigation. He doubted that too.

* * * * *

Jake watched the car creep up his gravel driveway toward Mount Ephraim Road. He'd spotted it and the guy walking around his property about five minutes earlier when he'd checked out the house from the top of his deer stand. The stand itself wrapped around a huge tree and was about ten feet above the lean-to below. In order to keep him quiet, he'd taped Nazarov's mouth shut with some duct tape and lashed his arms and legs around a tree with a couple of zip ties. He could see the panic in Nazarov's eyes as he walked away from him and thought he'd enhance the man's apprehension by whispering in his ear, "If you make any noise or try anything, I'll leave you here to die." It had the desired effect. Now, watching through binoculars and making note of the car, he was pretty sure the guy was a cop, but it wasn't the same investigator that came out when they'd reported Rachel's abduction. A sickening feeling came over him as he wondered if Rachel had been found somewhere and the guy had come to give the family the bad news.

He wanted to dismiss the thought for the reason that Rachel was the kidnappers' only bargaining chip and killing her meant they'd never get their blueprints back. By the same token, if Rachel was dead, their only choice would be to come after him directly to get them back, which is what Nazarov and his accomplice tried to do twelve hours earlier. They just weren't very good at it. Confused about his enemy's motives now, Jake kept his binoculars focused on the car. He had to believe his original theory that Nazarov had come after him on his own and that Rachel was still alive. It was the only thing that would keep him going now.

Continuing to watch, Jake could tell by the man's body language that he was looking for something, his movements not those he would use if he was there to simply deliver a message. That was reassuring in a way, more so when the man stopped at the mouth of the driveway and got out of his car to look at something on the pavement there. Probably blood, Jake figured, for that was the spot where Nazarov's partner took a bullet in the ass. Jake watched closely as the man pulled a handkerchief and took a sample. The guy didn't look familiar.

Jake decided to wait before making another move and he took a seat at the base of a large maple tree. The cop he'd just seen was a bit of a surprise and any surprise during a mission meant he hadn't planned well. What else had he not anticipated? It was late on Saturday afternoon and the evening hours were approaching. He could feel his body draining of energy. The only food he'd eaten were the three protein bars he'd put into his pocket at the beginning of his surveillance about twenty-four hours earlier. He was also out of water which reminded him that he probably should have taken his anti-seizure medicine already. He pulled a plastic bottle from his jacket and looked at the label, noting that he was supposed to take the pills twice a day. He couldn't remember the exact time he'd taken his last dose and he popped two of them into his mouth, swallowing them dry.

Glancing back at Nazarov, the guy wasn't going anywhere, he determined. Nazarov was sitting there, staring at him venomously and probably in significant pain from the going over he'd been through. Like he gave a fuck about that, thought Jake, having no remorse whatsoever of what he'd done to the man. He'd had a similar feeling a couple of times before in his life when his outfit in Iraq had captured some very bad men who'd done some very bad things, but the feeling then had never approached this level of hate and contempt, of wanting to do harm to the man. This wasn't just some target, this was personal, and the emotional aspect of what he was doing was so far toward the inner animal inside him that he wondered if what he was feeling was even human. Animals killed and did harm to other animals for survival. What he was doing to Nazarov was out of pure hostility. It would be no problem for him to chop off a finger, or a hand; no problem for him to peel back the skin on his body with a pair of pliers; he'd enjoy drilling a hole in the man's skull while he was still conscious. Putting a bullet between his eyes would be too good for him. Ho-hum, and the only thing that kept him from doing any or all of it was that Rachel would not condone it. She was the sweetest, most innocent person on the face of the earth, just like her mom, but in this case Jake had the feeling that if Lisa were there she'd be handing him the tools.

Jake looked away from Nazarov and figured he'd take some time to think about the rest of his plan. Before he did anything, however, he wanted to make sure there would be no more surprises like the one he'd just observed. It might be a good idea to wait for the sun to go down, he thought, to be sure no one would spot them. It wouldn't be long now. Then, he'd haul Nazarov's miserable ass into the workshop and he'd download the W54 schematics from his cell phone onto his computer. Hopefully he'd be able to manipulate the downloaded photos with his Photoshop program so that they could be recreated into blueprints again. Armed with those, he'd have something to trade for Rachel, and that's what he'd do. If that didn't happen—for whatever reason—or if something had happened to Rachel in the meantime, well, he figured he could make it so that no one would ever find the bodies. He knew how to do it, and he'd have no trouble with that. As for a group of probable terrorists reacquiring those schematics, well, Hattie McCloskey probably had some people who could take care of that afterwards. His job was to get Rachel back. Jake looked at Nazarov once more. He wasn't going anywhere, he thought again and he closed his eyes, just for a minute, just to wait for the sun to go down. It wouldn't be long, thought Jake. Just a little while.

* * * * *

Scotty kept urging her to drive faster. "Your father gave us specific instructions," said Lisa. "You know how he is when he wants something done a certain way."

"Mom, I don't care what Dad said. What if he needs our help? What if he's in trouble?"

"Your father can take care of himself."

"It didn't look like it when he came home from the hospital the other night. Looked to me like he was really out of it."

She had to admit that Scotty was right, and now she was afraid of what could happen to Jake in his condition. In many ways she was the leader of the household, but in other ways she didn't question Jake's judgment, especially when it came to the safety of the family. Obviously Scotty thought differently. She knew he would eventually let go of the apron strings and start to exert his own sense of independence, but this crisis certainly advanced that process and she could tell it would be difficult to control him. In a way, she felt better for it, and she found herself leaning on him just like she would have leaned on Jake if he was there instead of Scotty. Jake was only trying to protect her and Scotty when he'd told them to get away from the house, but that just made her feel detached and helpless. Clearly Scotty felt the same way. Maybe listening to Scotty in this situation was more rational than listening to Jake.

"What would you do if you were in your father's shoes right now?" she asked. Scotty looked at her and she urged him on with her eyes. Scotty looked like his father, acted like his father, and she knew that in many ways he thought like his father.

"If I knew someone was coming after me, I'd try to get the advantage. Maybe I'd set a trap for them."

"You wouldn't go after them first?"

"Not if I didn't know what I was facing. What if I was going to be outnumbered? I think I'd like to know what was coming."

Lisa pulled off to the side of the road. "And how would you do that?"

Scotty thought for a moment. "I think I'd lure them to a place I knew really well and that they didn't know at all. I'd figure that would give me an advantage."

"And if you were to do that on our property, do you know where that would be?"

"I know exactly where that would be," Scotty replied anxiously. "And if I did it right they wouldn't even know I was watching them."

Scotty had grown up on that property, and Lisa knew that he was familiar with every square inch of the three hundred acres they owned. He'd been hunting rabbits, turkeys, and now deer on that land with his father since he was ten, and he'd ridden every trail back there on his mountain bike and most recently on a dirt bike they'd bought for him last Christmas. "Go on," she said.

"Do you remember how Dad and I built those two deer stands a couple of summers ago?"

"Of course," Lisa replied, although she'd never actually seen them. She was perfectly happy to cook whatever game they harvested as long as she didn't have to clean it, but the woods were their playground and she hardly ever went back there. Too many bugs and crawly critters for her liking.

"We built those stands so that they were set back from the trails and way off the ground," said Scotty. "And we built them so that we could scoot around on the platforms and stay hidden by the tree trunks. If we stay quiet and downwind, the deer will walk right past us."

"And do you think that's where your father would be?"

"I don't know that. You asked me what I would do if I was in Dad's shoes, and that's what I would do."

Scotty was as close to being Jake at that very moment as another human could be. "And what would you do if we wanted to find him?" Lisa asked, wondering if that was the stupidest thing she could possibly do right now.

"Well, the first thing I'd do is ask you not to come along," Scotty replied. "You don't know those woods, and in all honesty Mom, I think you'd be in the way more than anything."

That's exactly what Jake would have said, thought Lisa. "What else would you do?"

"Well, I'd be sure to dress in my deer-hunting cammies," said Scotty, and he hesitated.

"What?" Lisa questioned. "What else?"

"I'd have Dad's hunting rifle with me."

Not saying anything further, Lisa put the car back into drive and half an hour later they were on Mount Ephraim Road a quarter mile from the house.

Scotty said, "Do you think maybe we should check things out to make sure it's safe to go back?"

For Lisa, the thought of making sure it was safe to go back into her own house infuriated her, but she knew Scotty was right. Again, it was exactly what Jake would have said.

"Let me out here, Mom." Scotty got out of the car and leaned back into the open window. "Drive up the road a ways and wait. I'll call you on your cell to give you the all-clear." Scotty pushed the door closed and gave his mom a tight smile, and he was off into the darkening night, running effortlessly on his Nikes as if he was riding the wind itself.

Fifteen minutes later Lisa's cell rang and Scotty said, "C'mon in."

When Lisa went through her back door Scotty was already dressed in his hunting cammies with Jake's Remington 30-06 deer rifle slung over his shoulder. "There's a dried puddle of blood at the end of the driveway," he said. "It's not like a blood trail like when a deer gets shot and runs off into the woods where you can track it. That, and Dad's truck is unlocked. Dad never leaves his truck unlocked, so I'm wondering if he did that on purpose in case he needed to jump in and drive away in a hurry.... I'm going out to find him," he added as he put on his camouflaged hat.

Flooded with emotion, this was not what a fifteen-year-old should be doing, thought Lisa, but in another time and place he would have been expected to act like a man at his age. She looked at him. In many ways Scotty had already grown into the man he was going to be, and she knew there was no way she was going to stop him. Not now, and she wasn't sure she wanted to stop him. This was about family, and if there was anything she and Jake had taught their children it was that nothing took precedence over family. If one of them needed help, the others would be there for him or her, no questions asked. That's exactly what Jake was doing in trying to find Rachel, and now Scotty was following suit. She could have tried to dissuade him from going into harm's way, but Scotty was going to do what he was going to do and the best thing she could do would be to guide him along. "Don't forget your cell phone," she said.

"I have my cell phone, but don't call me unless it's really an emergency," said Scotty. "I don't want it going off unexpectedly. I'll call you when I have something to report, okay?"

"Do you have everything you need?"

"I think so: cell phone, flashlight, water...." He headed for the door and turned. "It might be a while."

"Hold on a second." Surprising even herself at what she was about to do, Lisa reached into her bag and handed him her H & K P30. "Here," she said. "You need to be able to protect yourself."

"What about you?"

"I'll get another from the safe. You just be careful with that. Your father didn't show you how to use one of those things for nothing." Wordlessly, Scotty turned and left. Holding herself together, hoping she wasn't on the verge of losing her entire family, she hoped to God that she was doing the right thing.

Making his way through the back property, Scotty took a knee at the edge of the vegetable garden. "Get a sense of the prevailing breeze," his dad had always told him. "Figure out which way is upwind and which is downwind. Be aware that if the wind is strong you won't be able to hear things well, especially if it's in your face. Plan your moves and your approach before you march off aimlessly, and make sure your eyes are adjusted to the light or the darkness if you are tracking at night. Know where the moon and stars are located so that if you get turned around you can still determine where you're headed. Walk, stop, listen. Walk some more, stop, and listen some more." And that's what Scotty did, moving silently along the edge of the trail where the soil was damp and soft, where his footfalls wouldn't make as much of a scuffling noise as they would in the dry middle of the trail.

Half an hour into his search he stopped and took a knee again to focus on something else his father had told him. He held there for several minutes and concentrated on breathing slowly, not panting, which would help him hear better. The brush along the trails had grown since the fall season, he'd noticed, and the new spring branches were whipping and dragging against his jacket as he made his way along, again creating noise that could alert anyone waiting in the silence. He checked over the tree tops, noting the slightest tinge of lightness still present in the sky. The stars were just beginning to twinkle, looking like pin points in the atmosphere. In another twenty minutes everything would be swallowed by the darkness and it would be almost impossible to see any thin branches crossing over the deer trail. He'd have to move along in fits and starts not only to avoid giving away his location, but also to be able to hear above his own ruckus. His dad was out here someplace and someone was after him, and crashing through the thick growth was not a good idea. Scotty thought: if Dad wanted to give away his location, he'd do that on his own; he didn't need anyone to do it for him.

From one end to the other, the old farm that was the Blackwell property was a lopsided rectangle about half a mile on each side. That comprised the official three hundred acres that his father said belonged to them, but the woods themselves went on forever, crossing past their property line and extending several miles to the northeast until Mount Ephraim Road crossed from Montgomery County into Frederick County near Sugarloaf Mountain. There were thousands of acres of woods out there and their deer stands were at the edge of the Blackwell property just before entering into those thousands of acres. In daylight, it would take almost thirty minutes of steady hiking to reach those stands. During deer season, it would take twice that long in order to not scare off any deer in the area—they could hear you coming a hundred yards away—and now, at night, with the type of stealth he needed to maintain, Scotty figured it would take significantly longer.

The fact that he saw stars meant there were few clouds overhead. Looking down, satisfied that his eyes were picking up as much light as possible, he was able to trace the deer trail for a few feet before the darkness inhaled it. Like headlights on a car, he had a field of vision, albeit a short one, and he treaded softly, stopping every few minutes to listen to his surroundings. He nearly came out of his shoes when something crashed through the woods behind him, a deer perhaps, or maybe a turkey that thought it was being stalked, bolting through the underbrush. He never saw it. So what if that had been a human, he thought to himself. Someone could have jumped him and he wouldn't have had a chance. He needed to be more vigilant, and he made sure the pistol his mom had given him was accessible.

He thought about that for a second, the pistol, that is. His father had taught him how to use one and he was a pretty fair shot, actually, but he didn't know if he could ever use one on a person. He remembered how hard it had been for him to use the deer rifle he was carrying on a real live deer. He'd done it, but shooting a live animal was not at all like shooting at a target. Shooting at a human? Maybe not, thought Scotty. That was a whole different ballgame.

The first deer stand was probably close, he reckoned. It was up on a major ridge and in daylight he'd be able to see their house from it. The stand was about twenty yards off the trail to the south side, and Scotty suddenly wondered if he'd be able to see it in the darkness. He could always break out his flashlight, he figured, but he dashed the thought immediately. That was a sure way to give away his location, and if someone was after his dad and they had also taken Rachel, that was the last thing he wanted to do. Stealthily, he walked about fifty yards and took a knee, taking in the musty smell of the forest floor. Realizing now that he was sweating, he peered into the darkness and listened closely for anything besides the ever-present sound of June bugs and katydids. Nothing. Or was it something? Off in the distance, maybe; he couldn't tell. He moved forward another twenty yards and stopped again. Nothing. It had been his imagination. He had to be getting close to that deer stand.

Wondering now if going out there was a good idea, he recalled his dad's advice yet again about when there was something he wanted to accomplish. "Visualize it," his dad always said. "Picture it in your mind's eye and make a mental movie of what it looks like, whether it's hitting a curve ball or shooting your deer rifle. Try to copy that mental picture and more than likely you'll come close to accomplishing whatever it is you're trying to do." And so he did. In his mind's eye, he pictured his dad hunkered down and waiting for the men who were after him to stumble into his trap. No doubt his dad would want to know how many of them there were, and if he could handle them he'd take them out as soon as they got within range. If there were more than he could handle, he'd retreat and take them out one at a time. The part he was having trouble with was what the term take them out meant. His dad wasn't a killer, thought Scotty, although he knew that his father had killed enemy soldiers when he was in the army, but this was different, wasn't it? Or maybe it wasn't. His dad had to defend himself when he'd killed those other men, right? And he needed to defend himself now if he had any chance of finding Rachel. If he was in his dad's place, Scotty contemplated, and he was trying to protect himself in order to get Rachel back.... Well, he suddenly knew what would happen to the men who were after his dad.

Then, abruptly, what was that? It wasn't his imagination. It sounded like a deer scraping it's antlers against a tree, and it was coming from the direction of where he figured the deer stand was located. Zeroing in, Scotty moved quickly as the sound repeated. The sound of him moving through the woods must have excited whoever or whatever was out there, and suddenly he heard what he thought was someone moaning, a muffled human sound coming from just up the slope where he now knew the deer stand was located. He stopped, thinking that the moaning sound was not one his dad would make. He shouldered his deer rifle and peered through the scope, trying to see if he could get a visual through the darkness. Something was moving. He moved closer, thirty yards now, still hard to see in the darkness. He took a few more steps and was able to make out what he thought was someone sitting on the ground and tied to a tree. He moved closer. It was, and the guy was pulling and thrashing wildly like a captured animal. Keeping the rifle propped tightly against his cheek, Scotty flipped on his flashlight and saw immediately that it wasn't his dad. He moved closer. Despite the man's wild attempts at freeing himself, Scotty could see that it was useless. The tree had to be three feet around, completely filling the space between his arms and legs which were fastened so tightly with zip ties that the skin there was raw and bloody. The man's face was also bloodied, his mouth covered with duct tape that went completely around his face and neck. His eyes were like fire pits and he was moaning, begging to be set free from his predicament. Instinctively, Scotty knew this was his dad's doing. Where was he?

Shining the flashlight into the man's eyes, Scotty felt no compassion or urge to free him. Instead, he pointed his rifle at the man's head, making sure the guy saw him flick the safety to off. "Shut up," he commanded, making sure he kept a safe distance. "Where's my dad?"

The man's eyes darted and Scotty swung the flashlight in that direction, recognizing the lean-to he and his dad had built there. Quickly, he dashed over and spotted the body underneath the tarp. Terrified at what he might find, Scotty put his ear to his dad's mouth and felt breath coming and going, but not a lot of it. He put two fingers on the side of Jake's neck and felt a pulse, but barely. Instinctively, he pulled out his cell phone and called his mom. "Mom, I found Dad, and it's not good. I think he's had another blackout... No, he's alive, but I'm out here at the deer stand and I'm not alone. Dad has got some guy tied to a tree and I think it's probably one of the guys who were after him... No, I didn't ask him about Rachel, and I don't think I want to get too close to him... No, I'm okay for now, but I'm going to need some help. Do you think Tiny would be able to make it all the way out here?... Thanks Mom, and hurry... No, I'm okay for now, but if the guy gets loose I think I might have to shoot him."

Chapter 10... Going After Jake

Saturday, April 26th, 8:37 p.m. "You come home late and now you're not eating?"

"Sorry," said Benke. "I guess I'm not hungry." His wife was staring at him.

"I understand, darling, who would want to eat an overdone thirty-dollar roast and cold mashed potatoes with mushy peas?" She got up and started clearing the dishes, dumping the slices of parched roast beef on his plate directly into the trash can rather than saving them with the rest of the leftovers. "Do you know what day this is?"

Uh-oh, thought Benke. Panic moved over him like a tsunami. It wasn't their anniversary. They were married in June and it was only April.

"Forget it," she said. "You're a lost cause, Joe Benke." She moved off into the kitchen and continued to feed the trash can.

Normally he would have helped her clear but he'd discovered over the years that he was better off staying away when she got like this. Of course, she only got like this when he screwed up, and from the looks of things he'd screwed up royally this time. It wasn't her birthday either, he thought. This was gonna cost him for sure.

Benke moved off and took a lounge chair on the deck, figuring he'd be better off staying out of her direct line of sight. As if by force, the thoughts about this Meetinghouse Road case pushed out anything else that was in his head. He still had no idea about the victim, and he still had no idea about Ruslan P. Nazarov or UIF Enterprises. Plus, he still didn't have any answers about the blood—two samples of blood now—one of them just a drop he'd found under the cabinet inside the house, the other from the drying puddle he'd found at the mouth of Jake Blackwell's driveway. That one was still wrapped up and sitting in the lockbox in his bedroom closet with his service weapon. He'd have to get that to Toscano ASAP. He sipped his drink and wondered how those samples were connected, and wondered further if he could get Toscano to come in on a Sunday.

* * * * *

It was the eighth inning of the Washington Nationals game and DIA Special Agent Dave Forrester was nodding away in front of the TV despite his best efforts to stay awake. He was just about asleep when the phone rang. "Who the hell would be calling at ten o'clock on a Saturday night?" he asked his wife as he got up. "Whatever it is, you couldn't have asked me this afternoon at the barbeque?" he snapped into the phone after looking at the caller ID.

"Sorry," said Hattie McCloskey, "but this thing is really bugging me."

"Thing.... Are you talking about the nonexistent Nazarov, Uzbek thing again?"

"Yeah, but I don't think Nazarov is nonexistent. I need some more help."

"What, you're going to the next step to find this guy?"

"Sort of."

"Okay, you're dancing around something, Hattie. Why the secrecy?

"Because if what I think is happening really is, it will cause a panic like you've never seen before."

"You're gonna have to give me something more," said Forrester.

Hattie knew he had no choice if he wanted Forrester's help. "Last Wednesday an old friend of my dad came to see me, and he in turn had a friend of his tagging along." He stopped, figuring Forrester would have questions along the way.

"Did this old friend of your dad have a name?"

Hattie did a double take on his end of the line. "You know, I'm not even sure of Tiny's real first name, but I can find out."

"Tiny?"

"Tiny Rivera. Flew Huey's with my dad in Vietnam."

"A fellow Marine."

"Semper fi," said Hattie.

"And his tag-along friend?"

"Jake Blackwell, Army Ranger, 75th Regiment. He was one of the best, Dave. Did four tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Looking at the guy, it probably would have been more except that he got taken out by an IED. I think he's still under treatment for the resulting brain injury."

"Seems like you were able to find out a bit on your own; what do you need me for?"

"Tiny brought Blackwell to see me because of something Blackwell found while working at his regular job."

"Which is?"

"Blackwell does construction and renovation work and also works as a handyman. Has his own business. He came across something on one of his jobs and figured someone should know about it."

"So he came to you? Why didn't he go to the police or something?"

Hattie stayed patient, knowing that Forrester had his own way of getting where he wanted to go. "Well, with Tiny and my dad being close friends, I think Tiny had something to do with that. Actually, it's not far from our turf, Dave."

"Okay.... I'm interested. Go on."

"Blackwell was doing some work in a house in Potomac supposedly owned by this Nazarov guy I asked you about."

"Ah," said Forrester. "The plot thickens."

"In the course of doing his work Blackwell found some schematic drawings, blueprints, for a W54 nuclear device. It was one of ours, Dave. Do you know what that is?"

"Not exactly."

"It's a miniature nuclear device that can be carried, or launched."

"Carried? As in like a truck or something?"

"As in like a backpack or something. As in not much bigger than what the pressure cooker bombers carried around at the Boston Marathon. I think in this day and age it could fit into a rolling suitcase, no problem."

"Oh man," said Forrester. "And this W54 thing can do real damage?"

"Monster damage, as in city blocks, and can put off enough radiation to kill everything but the cockroaches. We built thousands of these things during the Cold War, Dave. It's anyone's guess if they were all accounted for, as well as anyone's guess as to what happened to all the top secret R & D files."

"You said we built this. So this is not a new weapon," Forrester concluded.

"Not at all. I'm pretty sure it's no longer part of our nuclear arsenal, but that doesn't mean that someone who has the schematics and a machine shop can't still make one. How hard could it be, for Christ's sake?"

"Now I understand the Uzbekistan connection," said Forrester. "If indeed they have the fissionable material squirreled away, and they are able to get hold of, or build one or more of these things, it could make for a real bad day for a whole bunch of people."

"Curtains," said Hattie. "Especially if it's set off someplace where a large number of people congregated where it would cause maximum human damage."

"So why not simply work with this Blackwell guy and connect the dots back to...." Forrester paused. "Oh, wait. The trail stops at Nazarov and UIF Enterprises, which are both nonexistent entities, right?"

"Right, but it gets worse."

"Worse, how?"

"Whoever these guys are, they're after Blackwell too."

"After him in what way, and why?"

"Not sure. Maybe because they think he has knowledge of their organization, or knowledge of their plan to use the W54 and they're looking to take him out just for that. Or maybe they think he still has the schematics and they want them back. Whatever the reason they've kidnapped his daughter in order get what they want."

"Oh my, this is serious. Does Blackwell have any more insight into why they're after him?"

"He isn't around to answer that question, and according to Tiny he's gone off on his own."

"What does that mean?"

"Tiny said he's taking things into his own hands and is going after whoever kidnapped his daughter."

"And I'll bet this Tiny fellow has no idea where he is, right? And even if he did he probably wouldn't tell you."

"Right."

"So in order to find this Nazarov guy, and in turn find out what he was going to do with plans to build a miniature nuclear bomb, you need to find Blackwell before he gets himself killed. Does that sound about right?"

"Right."

"Hattie, don't take this the wrong way, but do you really consider this to be a credible threat to our national security?"

"Dave, Potomac is less than twenty miles from the U.S. Capitol, or the White House, or the Pentagon. Whether it's an organization or just some nub job, if someone is actually going to build a nuclear device in our back yard, you're damned right I do."

"So you want me to go after Blackwell," Forrester concluded.

"Right," said Hattie.

* * * * *

Tiny was snoring on the couch when Marisol shook him awake and handed him the phone. "It's Lisa Blackwell and she sounds scared. She thinks Jake had another blackout."

Groggily, Tiny sat up and took the phone, his senses dulled from the sleep and the lingering effects of the multiple beers he'd consumed at Hattie's cookout that afternoon. "Lisa, it's Tiny. What's going on?"

"Tiny, you have to come. I think Jake is in trouble."

Tiny looked at the clock, noting that it was almost ten thirty. "Slow down, honey. Tell me what you know."

"I just got a call from Scotty. He's—"

"Isn't Scotty with you?"

"No. He went out to find Jake."

"Finding Jake right now might not be a good situation for a fifteen-year-old boy to get himself into," Tiny warned.

"I know," said Lisa, "but I didn't know what else to do. Thank God he went."

"So he found Jake," Tiny surmised after hearing that.

"He did, but Jake is passed out like he had another blackout."

"Damn," said Tiny. "Where are they?"

"Do you know those two deer stands out in the woods that Jake and Scotty built a couple of years ago?"

"Yeah, sure. That's a long way out there."

"Well, Scotty found Jake at the first stand up on the high ridge. I'm not sure I can get there by myself, and certainly not in the dark. I need help, Tiny. Please, can you get out there and bring them in?"

"You stay where you are," Tiny shot back. "I'll be over as soon as possible. You still have that all-terrain vehicle in the barn, don't you?"

"And the tractor," Lisa replied. "You can use whatever you want."

"Good. Sit tight and let Scotty know I'm on my way. Give him my cell phone number in case he wants to call me."

Tiny was about to hang up when Lisa said, "Tiny, one more thing."

Her voice sounded even more urgent, if that was possible. "What is it?"

"Bring a gun."

Okay, now he was awake. Feeling the anxiety move over him, Tiny said, "Stay calm, honey. Now why don't you tell me why I need to do that?"

"I think someone has been here,"

"Is that just a feeling, or are you sure?"

"Scotty found a puddle of blood at the end of our driveway."

"Was it human blood?"

"I.... I don't know. Scotty said he didn't think it came from a deer or anything like that. He said animals usually get up and run off and he didn't see a trail."

A valid observation, unfortunately, thought Tiny. "Are you alone right now?"

"I am, but I'm armed. I'm worried about Scotty's situation."

Tiny had the feeling she had more to say about that. "Why don't you tell me what that is?" he instructed.

"Scotty said that Jake had someone tied to a tree. If that's the case, and whoever it is has something to do with Rachel's kidnapping, I don't want him getting away." She was sobbing now. "We need to get Rachel back, Tiny. We want our daughter back."

A young man, all alone in the woods, with his father incapacitated and who-knows-what-kind of deviant tied to a tree? Things weren't going well for the Blackwell family right now. "Jesus," said Tiny. "Did Scotty say he was all right? I mean, is he safe?"

"I'm not sure," Lisa replied. "He said if the guy gets loose he's going to shoot him."

Tiny thought: that's exactly what Jake would have said.

* * * * *

It took a while to get onto the deer trail which was barely wide enough in places for the ATV to squeeze between the fallen trees and huge boulders that cluttered the landscape. Following it at night was doubly difficult, especially when the trail stopped abruptly in in front of some obstacle that the deer simply jumped to continue their journey. He wasn't going to jump over anything, thought Tiny as he struggled to keep his center of gravity low so that the ATV wouldn't tip over into some gulley. If that happened, it could spell disaster.

Most of the time, deer traveled from east to west, he remembered, a bit of knowledge he'd picked up from Jake on one of their hunts. That was because deer preferred to travel into the prevailing wind, which in this part of the map meant they'd travel nose-first into huge air masses coming down off the Potomac and the Blue Ridge mountains beyond. Looking at the tracks on the trail, Tiny went in the opposite direction and hoped to hell he was going the right way. "Take your time," he said to himself. "They're not going anywhere." Despite his deliberate pace and the headlight on the ATV, thin unseen branches of new growth whipped him in the face as he made his way along, stinging him. Twenty minutes in, he thought he heard his cell phone go off through the engine noise of the ATV. He stopped and checked, seeing that he'd missed a call and two others before it. With his heart pounding, he called back immediately. It was Scotty.

"Scotty, are you all right?" he bellowed into the phone.

"Mom said you were coming," Scotty shot back, his voice quaking. "You already passed us. Look behind...." and the call was gone.

"Shit," said Tiny, and he called back, but it went straight to Scotty's voicemail. Once again Tiny nervously jabbed a thick finger into the screen and this time Scotty picked up only to have the call vanish again immediately. "Shit," Tiny barked again, and he put the phone back into his pocket. Scotty must have seen the ATV's light if he knew it had already passed him, and Tiny turned in the saddle, scanning the darkness from side to side. It was like looking into a black hole, he thought, when he suddenly saw a pinprick of light, or thought he did, higher up in the darkness. That's when he remembered how Lisa had described the location of the deer stand. It was up on the high ridge, she'd said. That had to be it, and he aimed his eyes there. Nothing. He looked again, furrowing his forehead in concentration as if that would make the light more visible. Still nothing.

Almost panting now, he took hold of the steering bars and wrestled the ATV until it was facing in the opposite direction. He started back a few yards when he spotted the pinprick of light again. It was moving faster now, and Tiny figured that Scotty was waving his flashlight. Minutes later, Tiny left the ATV on the trail and quickly made his way up the ridge.

"Scotty, are you there? Are you all right?" Tiny hollered into the darkness as he crawled and stumbled up the steep slope.

"Tiny, hurry," he heard Scotty call back.

Gasping for air now, Tiny instinctively reached into his belt holster where sat his .357 Night Guard revolver. He'd never fired that pistol at a human being, and he was hoping this wouldn't be the time to pop its cherry. He cleared the top of the crest and saw Scotty's flashlight aiming right at him. Pointing his own flashlight in return, he stepped closer and was able to see Scotty sitting there with Jake's head in his lap. Reaching him, Tiny noticed that while his dad's head was in his lap, Scotty's hands were wrapped around a bolt action deer rifle.

"Over there," Scotty called out emphatically, and Tiny followed his flashlight beam to about twenty feet away where he spotted a man sitting with his arms and legs stretched around a large tree so that it was almost impossible for him to move.

The man began writhing and bucking wildly as soon as Tiny reached him, grunting and snorting due to the fact that duct tape was wrapped tightly around his mouth and around to the back of his head. Tiny aimed his flashlight into the man's face, seeing that it was crusted with blood and that his eyes and cheeks were heavily bruised. Seeing this, Tiny moved to the other side of the tree and looked closely at the zip ties that bound the man's hands and feet, noting that the plastic was so tight that the skin was raw. He pulled on the zip ties, and the man let out with a loud, muffled cry that relayed his obvious pain and displeasure. He wasn't going anywhere, Tiny determined. Moving back to the guy's face, Tiny shined his flashlight into his eyes, seeing them filled with blood, pain, and hate, and the next thing he did was to pull back with his right fist and smash it into the side of the guy's skull as hard as he could, knocking him out.

"I don't have time to deal with you right now," he said, and he moved back to Scotty. "Are you all right, son?" The boy was trembling, and Tiny could see tracks on his face where the tears had cut through the grime there.

"We need to save my dad," said Scotty.

* * * * *

"For Christ's sake, Benke, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet. Don't you ever think about anything else?"

Benke held the phone away from his ear as he waited for Toscano to calm down. He had to think before answering the question, however, and had to admit to himself that if he had to respond honestly his response would be no. "C'mon Mike, how long could it take, huh? A couple of hours at the most?"

"It's Sunday, Benke. It's a day of rest. The Lord designed it that way."

"The Lord isn't trying to solve this case."

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"You've told me that before."

"Yeah, well, I really mean it this time."

"Does that mean you'll do it?"

"I have a one o'clock tee time with my son today, and I wanted to be on the practice green by noon. That means that you'll be watching my hairy white ass walking out the door of that lab at precisely 11:05. If we're not done by then, it'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"I owe you one, Mike."

"Yeah, and you've told me that before too. Tell me again what you've got."

"I've got two blood samples I'd like to run for DNA. One of them I found in the crime scene house on Meetinghouse Road, the other I found on Jake Blackwell's property in Dickerson."

"Blackwell—you're talking about the Blackwell whose fingerprints were all over that house and also on the barbell bar that could be the murder weapon."

"That's right."

"Do you think the two blood samples are both connected to the murder?"

"All I know," said Benke, "is that Blackwell works as a handyman and there's a chance he was doing some of the remodeling work in the house. That's an easy conclusion. What I'd like to know is why his fingerprints appear in other parts of the house where no remodeling work was being done."

"Why don't you just ask him that?" Toscano asked logically.

"I wanted to," Benke replied. "That's why I paid him a visit yesterday afternoon."

"And how did he respond?"

"He wasn't there, but his truck was, and so was a pretty big blood spill I found, which is the second sample I have for you."

Toscano paused. "So you have two locations where you know Blackwell has been present, and you have a murder at one location and significant blood spillage at the other. Let me guess, Benke, you don't believe in coincidence."

"There's no such thing, Mike."

"It's sounding more and more like you want to go after Blackwell for this Meetinghouse Road thing."

"We can put him at the scene, which means he had the opportunity. The guy is a former Army Ranger, which tells me he had the means to commit the crime. All I want is to talk to the man to see if he had a motive. Maybe the DNA from these blood samples will tell me that."

Toscano said, "I'll meet you at the lab in twenty minutes."

* * * * *

"Jake is awake."

Tiny barely moved. "How's he doing?"

"He wanted to know where Nazarov was," Lisa replied.

"Did you tell him?"

"I told him you had it under control."

"Good answer," said Tiny. "I wish I felt that way."

There was no way Nazarov was going to get near Jake again, so Tiny put him in the barn, which was about a hundred yards from the house. Nazarov was passed out in one of the horse stalls where he'd collapsed the previous night after being force-marched back from the deer stand.

"Is he still breathing?" Lisa asked, not seeming to have much compassion for the guy.

"As far as I know," said Tiny . "Maybe you ought to take a closer look. I'm too tired to get up."

She walked over and peeked over the stall gate. Inside, Nazarov was in a corner, folded onto himself and wheezing through his blood-crusted nose which Jake had broken the night before. His arms and legs were bound with duct tape now, the zip ties having been cut away in order free him from the tree with which he'd become such a good friend. His face bruised and bloodied, his clothing stained everywhere from various cuts and scrapes, he seemed to sense her presence and his eyes shot open.

"I'll get him something to eat and drink," she said, walking away from the stall. "I wouldn't want the son of a bitch to die on us."

Tiny chuckled as she walked past. Getting up, he figured he'd better check on the guy as well, but he was stopped in his tracks by Jake's presence in the barn door.

"You got this under control?" Jake asked, his voice raspy but seemingly none the worse for wear from the happenings of the night before. His face was still smudged with the remnants of the camo paint he'd been wearing.

"Roger that, Army. How are you doing?"

Jake made his way across the dirt floor and took a seat on a bale of hay next to Tiny. "What day is it, sir?"

Sir? "It's Sunday morning," said Tiny.

"How did we get here last night?"

"Scotty tracked you down. If it wasn't for him you might still be out there—in God-knows-what condition," he added for emphasis. "Quite a boy you have there, Army."

Jake nodded. "He's a good private," he said, "despite the fact that he went against orders, but I know he had my six on this one. What I meant was, how did we evac out of that position?"

Tiny looked at him oddly. Private? Evac? Orders? Was Jake messing with him here? "Believe it or not, we secured you as best we could on the deck of the ATV and lashed your arms around Scotty with duct tape so you wouldn't fall over. He sat in the saddle took you out like that inch by inch while I walked our friend out at gunpoint."

"We should have had a better contingency plan," said Jake. "Next time we'll have better recon before we undertake another mission like that."

"Army, are you all right? This isn't Ramadi."

Jake waved the question away. "I'm fine, sir. Where's the prisoner? I would like to continue with the interrogation."

Tiny looked into Jake's eyes. "How'd you sleep last night, soldier?"

"I slept fine, sir, when I could, but that artillery fire kept me awake a good part of the night."

"You heard artillery fire last night?"

"Yes, sir. Didn't you? It was coming right over us. Sounded like a whole battalion of M198s in action."

Tiny thought maybe Jake was playing a joke on him, but it didn't take long for him to see that wasn't the case. Jake was awake and functioning, but his mind was somewhere else. "Why don't you tell me about that, Army? Did you get separated from your unit?"

"I must have, sir. We knew the enemy was coming and we took a forward position and waited for them to appear, but my company must have bugged out and somehow I got detached from the rest of the men. I.... I'm not sure what happened after that, sir."

"That's all right, soldier. Take your time. It's important that you tell me what you know in case some of our men are still out there."

"Yes, sir."

"Good, good, soldier. Nice and easy, now. Tell me what you remember."

"Like I said, I was in position, waiting for the enemy to appear when I spotted two of them making their way up from the tree line on the other side of the field."

"The field.... Do you mean the vegetable garden?"

"Yes, sir. They came out of the wooded area and I could see them through my night scope. I was ready to take both of them, but they split up and I remembered that we needed to take them alive for intel reasons. One of them came right at me and I took him out pretty easy. The other one ran up the slope toward the road and must have called for someone in his detail to come and get him, but I'm pretty sure I put a couple of rounds in his ass before he was able to get away. I then followed orders and took the prisoner to our rendezvous point where I interrogated him while I waited for the rest of the company to show up. But then...."

Tiny continued to play along. "But then what, Army?"

"But then I don't remember, sir. All I remember after that is the sound of that damned artillery fire, shell after shell not more than ten feet over my head. I thought sure I'd just bought the farm, sir. I froze. I couldn't move for fear that I'd take one for sure, so I secured the prisoner to a tree and hunkered down hoping I wouldn't get hit. It sounded like friendly fire to me, sir. M198 Howitzers. Did I almost get taken out by friendly fire?"

Tiny didn't know what to say. "I don't know, son. I'd have to check to see if we had any units directing fire into that area."

"Well thank God you guys found me and were able to get me and that prisoner out of there. Has he said anything yet?"

"No, not yet, Army. Listen, why don't you get yourself something to eat and maybe get a little more rest. I'll stay with the prisoner until we're ready to resume interrogation. You look a little tired."

"I think I'm okay, sir. I think I'm ready to—"

"That's an order," said Tiny. "I'll let you know when it's time to relieve me."

Jake stood up and gave Tiny a salute. "Yes, sir. I'll be ready when you need me."

Tiny just watched as Jake exited the barn and walked back toward the house. "Oh boy," he said to himself.

# Part Three

# Pursuit

Chapter 11... Proof Of Life

Sunday, April 27th, 2:26 p.m. Three sets of eyes were drilling me with their intensity and a wave of apprehension washed over me. What were they doing here? The last thing I remembered was watching a cop through my binoculars and wondering why he was snooping around my truck.

"I thought I told you two to hide out someplace," I said, directing the comment to Lisa and Scotty who were both hovering over me as I lay in the bed—my bed, I determined quickly, but having no idea how I'd gotten there from where I was deployed. I also had no clue as to why Warrant Officer Rivera was there, or what he was referring to when he responded instead of either of them.

"The boy saved your bacon, Army. I've seen platoon leaders who didn't have the courage he demonstrated last night."

I was still drawing a complete blank. "Last night, sir?"

"You don't remember anything about last night? What about this morning?"

My eyes bounced from face to face, and I shot up in a sudden electric panic. "What happened to the prisoner? We're going to need him if we're going to conduct a successful hostage extraction operation!"

Rivera came over and eased me back down on the bed. "Take it easy now, son. Take a look around. Do you know where you are?"

I was tempted to shove his hand away, but that was not something you did to a senior warrant officer. "Of course I know where I am, sir. With all due respect, sir, why are you asking me that?" I wondered why Lisa started crying all of a sudden, and I noticed that Scotty had that look he always got when he was really confused about something. What were they doing in a forward combat zone?

"Army, who are these people?" WO Rivera asked.

What a stupid question, I thought to myself. Rivera must have seen my displeasure.

"Answer me, soldier!"

I looked at Lisa and said, "This is my wife." I still didn't understand why she was sobbing or why she took my hand the way she did.

"And the young man?" Rivera questioned.

"Sir, really. I mean no disrespect, but—"

"Button it, soldier! Now tell me, who is the young man standing at the foot of the bed?"

"That's Scotty, sir!"

"Is Scotty part of your unit, soldier?"

Part of my unit? Had Rivera flipped his lid? "No, sir. These people are civilians, sir. That man is my son." I watched Scotty as his look went from confused to distressed. "Are you wounded?" I asked.

"No, Dad, I'm not. How are you feeling?"

Feeling? "I feel fine, soldier. Did you bring in the prisoner?"

Scotty looked at Lisa. "Yeah, I did. Are you okay, Dad?"

Why was everyone so damned concerned with my well-being? "What about the operation?" I asked. "We need that prisoner to complete the next phase of the mission."

Rivera stepped up close to the bed, his wide body hiding everything from view so that I had no choice but to concentrate on him. "What's the next phase, Army? What are your orders?"

I had to stop and think for a second to remember if my orders were classified. I didn't think they were, and knowing Rivera's reputation I didn't think he'd stick his nose where it didn't belong. "We have what they want, sir. Hopefully, we can do a swap and get our hostage back."

"She's not a hostage!" Lisa cried from behind Rivera. "She's our daughter!"

Rivera turned and motioned for her and Scotty to move away. As a soldier, I figured he didn't need emotion to get in the way of decision making right now.

"What makes you think the enemy would consent to a hostage swap?" Rivera asked. "The way I see it, they might turn around and execute our prisoner for putting them in this situation."

"The swap wouldn't be for him, sir," I said, setting Rivera straight. "It would be for the schematics they want. I still have those drawings stored in my cell phone and we can trade those for the hostage—for Rachel," I added, feeling a sudden overwhelming swell of emotion in the middle of my chest. "We only need him to get us to that point and facilitate the trade. After that, they can cut him into little pieces for all I care—if I don't do it for them beforehand." I could see Rivera mulling over the plan I'd just described. "Sir?" I said.

Rivera looked at me dully.

"I've already put the plan in motion," I said. "I had Nazarov call his people to set it up."

"Did they bite?" Rivera asked.

"I don't know. They were talking in a language I didn't understand and we need to find out from Nazarov what they said."

"What if he leads you into a trap?"

"Well, first of all, sir, they won't get the schematics they want so desperately. Second, he and the rest of them will be dead by the time it's over."

"And you're going to do that all by yourself?"

"Is there an alternative? Do you really expect that I'm going to let someone else handle this?"

Rivera actually smiled. "No. Not at all. But what about Rachel?"

I hesitated and almost choked on the words. "The next step will tell us if she's still alive." I waited a moment and inquired about the prisoner again.

"He's in the barn," said Rivera. "We fed him and gave him something to drink and let him go to the bathroom. Then I made sure he was secured and let him get some sleep. He was in pretty rough shape, Army."

"Yeah, well...."

"Listen, get some rest. I'll check on him and get back with you so we can figure out how to complete the rest of this mission."

I thought: What the hell did that mean? I already knew how to complete the mission. Was Rivera playing me? I watched him turn away and put his arms around Lisa and Scotty, and I could hear them murmuring as they left the room. There was more murmuring as they stepped into the hallway, and a few words floated back to me as Lisa's voice got more and more shrill. Some of the words came from Rivera as well: PTSD, schizophrenia, traumatic flashbacks, and others. Is that what they thought? That I was some kind of stressed out paranoid living in the present and the past at the same time? I knew what I needed to do to get Rachel back and that's what I was going to do.

* * * * *

The first rule of battle is that men die. The second rule is that you can't change rule number one. Soldiers reacted to that in different ways. Some told jokes, some prayed, others couldn't take the pressure. They usually ate alone because no one wanted the heebie-jeebies that surrounded them. That's what happened to me that Sunday night. Once the prisoner was fed and cleaned up, WO Rivera and I made sure he was secured. We did that by putting a patio lounge chair into one of the horse stalls and rigging it so that half a dozen razor-tipped deer arrows fastened to a t-rig would come swinging down on him if he tried to get out of the chair. That, and some more duct tape did the trick. Rivera and I took turns in the barn, and I should have duct taped his mouth as well.

"They all think you've cracked," Nazarov barked at me. "They're afraid of you. That's why they're staying away from you, you crazy fuck."

It was true. Lisa and Scotty didn't come anywhere near me, and I had a feeling by the way Rivera was looking at me that he'd told them to stay away. I don't know, maybe he thought I was going to snap. But you know what? That was just fine with me as long as they were safe; I had things to do. It gave me a chance to go into the workshop when he relieved me to see if I could download the W54 schematics from my phone to my computer. It was no problem, and I printed them out on the plotter printer that I used to print out plans for decks, and additions, and other larger-scale construction jobs I got once in a while. The prints were almost identical to the ones I had seen that fateful day almost two weeks earlier in what I thought was Nazarov's house.

I carried the five sheets back to the barn with the intention of forcing Nazarov to talk to his people again—in English this time—to arrange a meeting. If he refused, well, I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but it wasn't going to be pretty. I still had his cell phone which contained the number of his last outgoing call, which was supposedly to the same people. If I couldn't get Nazarov to make the call, I figured I might. I walked into the barn anticipating that I was going to cause Nazarov to have some significant discomfort, and said, "Tiny, this might be a good time for you to get some air."

"You called me Tiny," he said as he got off the bale of hay he was sitting on.

He was watching me closely and I noticed that he had his hand on the butt of his .357. "That's your name, isn't it?"

"You've been calling me Warrant Officer Rivera since you woke up, Army."

I didn't respond but wondered: did I do that? I started to move past him toward Nazarov and he grabbed my arm. I lashed out violently.

"Sit... please," he said calmly, adding, "That's an order."

Seething, I obeyed the command.

"Surrender your weapon," he ordered. He walked around me as I sat down on the bale of hay and put my M9 down next to me. Stopping so that his eyes met mine, he asked, "Am I Tiny, or am I Warrant Officer Rivera?"

I huffed impatiently. "What is this, some kind of joke?"

"Not a joke, Army. Now answer my question. What's my name?"

I noticed that he pulled my weapon off the bale and held on to it. I also noticed that I could suddenly smell the hay, and the barn, and that I no longer smelled the pungent odor of field ordnance that for some reason had been strong in my nostrils since I came to six hours earlier. He was waiting for my answer. "Tiny," I said. "Your name is Tiny, and why are you asking me such a stupid question?" I looked around, noticing where we were for seemingly the first time. "What are we doing in the barn? Where are Lisa and Scotty?"

"Do you remember Lisa and Scotty?"

"Of course. What's going on, Tiny?" I looked down. "Why do you have that weapon in your hand?" I looked closer. "Is that my weapon?"

"You just gave it to me."

I thought: I did?

He stopped pacing around me—which had been driving me crazy—and stood in front of me. "Give me your hands," he said, holding his out toward me as an invitation.

"Tiny, what the hell?"

"Humor me, Jake. Give me your hands."

I put my hands in his, surprised by the fact that mine were trembling. I pulled them back immediately.

"Let's try it again," he said encouragingly. "C'mon, you can do it."

I put my hands in his and felt an upsurge of emotion that I couldn't control. The pressure behind my eyes pushed the tears through so that my face was a waterfall that wouldn't stop. With shoulders heaving I collapsed into Tiny's arms like a baby wanting its mother. I nearly fainted when I heard my own cries, huge, gasping sobs that I don't remember ever experiencing before, even in the height of battle when others were dying around me and I thought I wasn't going to make it out. The whole time Tiny's arms were clasped around me like some protective cocoon. I cried and cried, and then cried some more until it hurt. Finally, totally embarrassed, I pushed away from him. "Sorry," I said. I didn't even know what other words to use, and in reality I didn't want to say anything; the humiliation was just too much. "I don't know what that was all about."

"Your head is playing tricks on you, Army. Maybe it's your brain injury, or maybe it's PTSD, but whatever it is it's causing you to live in the past and present at the same time, mixing your worlds. You're not a soldier anymore. It's not kill or be killed, Army. You have to let go of that part of your life."

I knew what he was talking about. Kill or be killed: we did what we needed to do to survive. We became animals, operating on instinct and exhibiting the worst aspects of our humanity. "Lisa... Scotty...." I mumbled.

"They're all right, Army, but you've been thinking they were soldiers in whatever place you've been living in for the last couple of days. You've got to be careful with this, son. It can drive you off the deep end so that you're reliving the worst times of your life forever. I've seen it before, and it can consume you so that you're living in a permanent walking nightmare."

I wiped my nose and said testily, "What makes you such an expert?"

"Because I've lived through it and I've taken my own trips to the badlands."

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket, noticing for seemingly the first time that I was wearing camouflage clothing. I didn't remember that. I noticed again that Tiny was armed with a mean-looking .357 and was still holding my M9, and I tried to think of why we needed to be armed. "Why are we in the barn?" I asked groggily, yet I saw the blueprint copies that I'd printed out sitting next to me on the bale of hay and I knew immediately what they were.

Moving slowly so as not to alarm me, Tiny lifted my eyelids to check my dilation. "You really don't remember why we're here?" he questioned. I shook my head and he said, "Over there."

Over there was one of the horse stalls in the old barn. I approached it slowly and tried to focus in the dim light of the battery lantern nearby. I recognized the booby trap right away, something Tiny had seen in Vietnam and had drawn out for me on a napkin once when we were trading stories. Then I recognized Nazarov sitting there in that lounge chair, staring at me, sneering at me, the contempt plastered all over his face. I took the lantern and approached him, and I could see that he was scared to death that I was going to trigger the booby trap. I held the lantern up to his face and noted that he was bruised heavily and both his eyes were blackened. His was nose caked with dried blood and looked twice its normal size. I looked back at Tiny. "Did I...."

"Yeah, you did," said Tiny.

I looked back at Nazarov's and said, "Huh. I should have finished the job."

"Fuck you, you crazy bastard!" Nazarov screamed, and I snapped, backhanding him across the face and nearly knocking him out of the chair. Tiny came up and bear-hugged me, wrestling me away and preventing me from going further.

"Think of Rachel," he spat out urgently. "If you kill this guy you may never get her back."

Rachel... the drawings... Nazarov.... It was all coming back to me. I broke Tiny's grip and pushed him away. Angrily, I stepped toward Nazarov as Tiny pulled his .357 and held it on me.

"Don't do it, Army."

I grabbed the rope lines to prevent the arrows from swinging down on Nazarov. "Get up," I commanded, but he didn't move fast enough for me and I kicked him so that he flew off the chair.

"Army!" Tiny screamed.

I let the swing arm fall so that the arrows barely missed Nazarov, and me as well, and I pounced on him, grabbing him by the throat.

"Army! Don't do it," Tiny screamed again, louder than before, and I heard him cock the .357.

I put my face up to Nazarov's. "Relax, asshole. You're not going to die today." I let go of his throat and stomped past Tiny, taking the bundle of blueprints off the bale of hay. "You can put the gun down, Tiny. I'm not going to kill him yet."

* * * * *

That was the strangest Sunday of my life. Lisa and Scotty were afraid of me, pulling away when I reached out to touch them. No wonder, I thought when I got a look at myself in the mirror. My face was caked and smeared with grime and camo paint, my hair was plastered to my skull, and my beard was black wire. It was going on ten o'clock at night and I'd barely eaten anything in the last forty-eight hours. I must have looked like a jungle animal as I wolfed down a couple of sandwiches at the kitchen table. They were both staring at me as I sat hunched over the food. I noticed that Scotty was also still dressed in his hunting cammies, which meant that whatever sleep he'd gotten in the last twenty-four hours was done in his clothes.

"Tiny said you probably saved my life last night," I said to him. I felt tears form in my eyes as soon as I said it. "How's it feel to be a hero?" I asked as I took him in my arms.

"Is that all you men ever think about?" The question blasted through the room. "What about our daughter? We haven't heard a word about her from anyone."

Lisa's high-pitched cries penetrated me to the core and I'm sure they did the same to Scotty. I walked over to her but she pushed me away, violently, pounding me in the chest so that it hurt.

"Why haven't the police called us?" she shouted. "Why haven't we heard from the kidnappers?"

I didn't want to tell her that the police probably figured that there was as much a chance that Rachel had run away as there was that she'd been kidnapped. That, and the fact that we hadn't heard from any kidnappers since she was taken two and a half days earlier, and that no ransom had been communicated to us didn't give the police anything to work with. I also didn't want to bring up the fact that we'd been warned to not talk to the police if we ever wanted to see Rachel again. "Lisa...." I said.

"Shut up! Shut up all of you with this macho soldier crap. I want my daughter back," she wailed desperately. "I want her back."

Scotty came over and stood next to her, not saying a word. She grabbed him and cried into his chest, for he was taller than her now, and he stoically consoled her by just the sheer nature of his presence. Already he was a powerful force in the family and I backed off, not feeling the emotional strength I needed to help her. "Stay here, both of you," I said sternly, hoping that my tone wouldn't communicate my inner weakness. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

I walked to the barn where Tiny had been guarding Nazarov since I'd kicked him off that lounge chair earlier in the evening. I heard him say to Nazarov, "You'd better do what he wants if you want to see daylight." Good old Tiny. They both looked at me as I approached and both knew I wasn't happy. I slugged Nazarov in the head, knocking him down, and said, "Get up."

"Army, not again!" Tiny screamed.

"Stay where you are!" I screamed back. "Get up, you bastard," I growled and I pulled Nazarov up off the ground. I could see there wasn't much left in the guy, which in my state of mind at that moment in the history of mankind was exactly where I wanted him. I wasn't proud of what I was doing, but I knew the only way Nazarov was going to do what I wanted was if he saw death in his mind's eye. He needed to smell the devil's foul breath, and he needed to know he was an inch from painful, everlasting, rotten hell. I kicked him forward, watching him stumble and stagger out of the barn toward the house, and Tiny went up to help him.

"C'mon Army, not again. Don't let it take you over. You're better than this." He was pleading with me. "You have something to live for!"

Something to live for. Rachel. I needed to find out where Rachel was. We made it up the back porch and I kicked Nazarov through the back door so that he crumpled to the floor. Tiny continued to watch me, afraid of what he thought I was going to do. "Take it easy, Tiny," I said. "I'm all right and I know what I'm doing."

He looked me in the eye. "Where are you, Army?"

"I'm here and now," I said, and he backed off slowly but with significant doubt in his eyes.

I looked at Lisa and Scotty and said, "You can both stay or leave, but I'm going to find out where Rachel is." I could see Nazarov watching me the whole time, his head bobbing and weaving weakly. I reached over and pulled Tiny's .357 from his belt and put it on the kitchen table right in front of Nazarov. I then reached into the leg pocket on my cargo pants and pulled out Nazarov's cell phone, which I'd had for the last thirty-six hours since I'd told him to call his comrades. "Call your friends again," I said calmly and slowly. "This time tell them I want to arrange a trade. The schematics for Rachel. And say it in English this time, the whole time, nothing I can't understand. You got that? And I want proof of life—right now." I picked up Tiny's .357, put it on Nazarov's knee and pulled the hammer back. I looked at Lisa and Scotty again, but neither of them wavered. I guess they felt like I did, and that Nazarov's physical well-being didn't much matter at this point, not when it came to finding out if Rachel was still alive and getting her back.

Back at Nazarov I said, "We'll take out one knee at a time, then one hand at a time, then one testicle at a time until you do what I want." I turned to Tiny and said, "Would you undo his hands, please?" Tiny did so and I handed the phone to Nazarov, making sure I looked him in the eye as I did so.

Nazarov made the call and delivered the message. "They will call back within twenty-four hours to arrange the trade," he said as he held the phone to his ear.

That meant they wanted twenty-four hours to set a trap so they could kill me. My hand started shaking as I debated whether I should destroy Nazarov's leg, but I couldn't think of how that would improve the situation. "Proof of life," I growled.

Again, Nazarov relayed the message and I could see beads of sweat starting to track down his forehead as he thought about life as an amputee. He started shaking and looked like he was about to go into shock.

"Proof of life," I screamed, so that whoever was on the other end of that phone would have no doubt as to my state of mind. I grabbed the phone. "Or he dies now and you will never see those drawings again." I held there for some seconds before Rachel's voice came on the line.

"Daddy? Is that you?" she said, and it was all I could do to keep it together.

"Rachel!" Lisa screamed from across the kitchen, but another voice came on the line immediately.

"Twenty-four hours, this number," the voice said, and the line went dead.

I looked at Lisa and Scotty in turn. Lisa collapsed into Scotty's arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Scotty looked me straight in the eye but I had no clue as to what he was thinking. I hoped that it wasn't that his father was the stone-cold killer he seemed to be. Tiny came over and took the gun from me. Needless to say, it wasn't my proudest moment as a husband or a father.

Chapter 12... Let's Get Ready To Rumble

Monday, April 28th, 7:00 a.m. Lisa knocked on the bedroom door and said, "Jake, there's someone hear to see you."

I looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was 7:00 a.m. and I was just getting ready to take my first shower in three days after having guarded Nazarov for most of the night. I was leaking energy by the minute as I looked at Lisa whose eyes were gray and baggy, indicating she hadn't gotten much sleep either. "Who is it," I asked tersely, feeling my nerves frizzle despite the overwhelming exhaustion that had taken me over.

"It's a detective, Jake. He says his name is Benke." Her eyes met mine.

"Did he ask you any questions?"

"No," she said, knowing why I was concerned.

"Nazarov is still in the barn with Tiny, right?"

She nodded. "What do you want me to say to the man?"

I paused, not wanting to make her more anxious than she already was. "Offer him some coffee and tell him I'll be down in a minute." That seemed to settle her and she closed the door softly. I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered if I should take the time to shave, but I decided that keeping him waiting would give him too much opportunity to ask questions that Lisa didn't need to answer. If he was smart, he would ask me the same questions and if our answers didn't match, well, that wouldn't be good, regardless of why he'd come. I splashed some water on my face but it didn't help me look any less gorilla-like, then I put on a fresh t-shirt and called Tiny on his cell phone before going downstairs.

"There's a detective here to see me," I said to him quickly. "Make sure Nazarov stays quiet."

"Okay," said Tiny without asking a million questions. "He's sleeping. Shouldn't be a problem."

Benke was sitting at the kitchen table when I got downstairs while Lisa was mixing up some orange juice. I recognized him immediately as the same cop I'd seen through my binoculars as he was snooping around my truck on Saturday. Lisa wasn't saying anything, which I guess was good except that I could feel the tension in the room and I figured a good investigator would feel it as well.

He stood up as I approached. "I'm Detective Benke from the Montgomery County police," he said. He was pretty straight forward about it, reasonably firm handshake, but I could see that he took in my appearance right away. I took his in as well, concluding that the guy was so nondescript that if he was on a plane next to you for five hours you'd be hard-pressed to describe him—except for the eyes. Those were dark, and they didn't stop moving.

"Why are you here, Detective?" I asked, coming right out with it but saying nothing about Rachel. "And why so early in the morning?"

"Sorry about that," said Benke. "I came out extra early because I have to be in court this morning and I didn't want to miss you again."

"Again?"

"Ah," said Benke, doing a poor job of waving away the question. "I came to see you on Saturday but you weren't home, evidently. I don't think anyone was." He took another sip of his coffee and those dark eyes stayed pinned on me from over the coffee cup.

"That's right," I said after an awkward pause. "My son and I went camping for the weekend."

"Ah, that explains the look," he said, indicating my soiled cammie pants and my beard. I didn't say anything. "I'm investigating a murder," he said. "I was hoping I could ask you a few questions that might help me."

I knew immediately that playing dumb would be a mistake. A guy like him would have had his ducks in a row and he wouldn't have come all the way to Dickerson twice if he didn't have a good reason to talk to me. "You're talking about the thing on Meetinghouse Road," I volunteered.

"So you know about that," he surmised, probably knowing that the whole time. He glanced at Lisa and she looked away immediately.

"Yeah, sure," I said. "I was doing some remodeling work there and one day I show up and there's cop cars blocking the driveway. I was told that the place was a crime scene. Is Nazarov dead?"

Benke's eyes popped wide with the mention of the name. "When was that?" he asked.

I hesitated, wondering where Benke was going. I figured he knew the answer and was testing to see if I was telling the truth. "Wednesday," I said.

"But you weren't inside the house that day."

"No, not that day. The last time I was inside the house was the week before." Benke looked at me and I felt the need to explain. "I've had to take a few days off lately due to some medical issues."

"Oh," Benke said innocently enough. "Nothing serious, I hope." I didn't respond and he went on, "And Mister Nazarov was alive at that point?"

"Yeah, he was. So it was Nazarov," I said, trying to find out what Benke knew—or didn't know—about the situation.

Benke didn't bite. He took another sip of coffee and I could tell he was debating how much he could tell me, or not tell me. "How well did you know Mister Nazarov?"

"I didn't. He was just a guy I was doing some work for."

"So you weren't friends or anything."

"Not at all."

"How long did you work for him?"

"It was a three-day job. I was finishing up and had some trim left to paint which is why I went there that Wednesday."

"What was the nature of the job?"

Benke was really digging. I turned to Lisa and asked for a cup of coffee to buy myself some time. Deciding there was no harm in answering, I said, "He was blowing out a couple of interior walls in order to put in a home office. He said it would save him a lot of travel time back and forth to his office when he could work from home just as easily."

"I see, I see," said Benke, sort of mumbling to himself. "And your work was...."

"I tore down a couple of the non-load-bearing walls and patched up the other walls where he had an IT crew installing cables for his audio-visual and computer equipment."

"Do you know the nature of Mister Nazarov's work?"

"Yeah. Supposedly he owned a software company in Silver Spring."

"Why do you say supposedly?"

Oops, I thought. "Just a figure of speech. If he says he owned a software company, I have no reason to doubt that." Shut up, you idiot, I thought further, referring to myself.

"Do you know the name of his company?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, how did he pay you?"

"He cut me a check, paid for the whole job up front."

"I see," said Benke. "A personal check?"

"I don't recall exactly, but I think it was."

"You don't happen to know the name of the bank it was drawn on, do you?"

"Not offhand, but I'm sure my bank can supply that information." There was no reason to be evasive about that. "What are you trying to find out?" I asked boldly, trying to take the offense instead of the defense. I didn't like the idea of sounding like I was defending myself and possibly stepping into a trap.

"In addition to trying to find the killer, I'm trying to zero in on the identity of the deceased," Benke replied, seemingly honestly.

"Are you saying that the victim wasn't Nazarov?"

"We don't know," said Benke. "There was no ID on the body and the only indication that it could be Nazarov was the name on some incoming mail and some magazines. There's no record of anyone named Nazarov being the owner of that house or being the person to whom the four cars in the garage are registered. If I showed you a picture, would you be able to tell me if it was him?"

"I suppose so," I said, feeling like I was digging myself into a hole. I turned away and shot a look at Lisa.

She took my meaning immediately. "If you two will excuse me, I have to get Scotty ready for school," she said, and she got the hell out of there.

I turned back toward Benke and he pulled up a picture on his phone. "Is this him?"

I almost laughed. The guy in the photo had been beaten severely, reminding me of what I'd done to Nazarov over the last two days except that Nazarov was nowhere near as bad. "Jesus," I said, feigning shock. "What the hell happened to him?"

"Is it Nazarov?" Benke asked as if to keep me focused.

"No," I said. "Not from what I can tell from that picture." I left it there.

"Do you have any idea of who it might be?"

"None."

"I see," said Benke, pulling the phone away. Again, he gazed at me from over the coffee cup. "There's something else," he said cunningly.

I could feel my heartbeat quicken. I sipped some coffee and thought it tasted like poison. "Which is?" I asked. Benke's eyes were relentless.

"It's common practice in cases like this that we take fingerprints from the scene."

"Uh-huh."

"We did that," Benke went on. "We've found six sets of fingerprints that belong to people who don't live in the house, and I'm pretty sure we'll obtain a reasonable explanation of why those fingerprints are located where they are, which is in the area where the construction work was being done. Your fingerprints are there too, but unlike the others your prints appear in other parts of the house as well—including the room where the murder took place. Can you explain why your fingerprints appear in all those other places?"

It was like a projector sprang loose in my head and I started seeing those other places in my mind's eye. "Other places.... you mean other rooms?" I asked, a totally useless question, but it bought me a few seconds to think.

"Yes," Benke replied. "In other rooms, on other objects. You said your work was in the area where the home office was being built. Why would your fingerprints be in other areas in the house?"

The eyes stayed on me now. "Nazarov liked my work," I said. "He took me to other parts of the house and asked how much it would cost to do other fix-ups and renovations. Homeowners are always asking for quotes on other projects once they see I do good work." I tried to remember exactly what I'd touched after I discovered the blueprints and was nosing around trying to find out if Nazarov was some kind of whack job. Benke was nodding, so I guess what I said made sense to him—or he was reeling me in.

"One thing in particular that had your fingerprint on it was a barbell bar, you know, like from a weight-lifting set. Do you remember handling that for any reason?"

Benke didn't say why that was in particular. "What makes that fingerprint so important?" I asked.

Benke put down his coffee cup and crossed his hands as if he were about to watch a movie. "We're not sure yet, but we think that barbell bar may have been the murder weapon."

I froze. If my fingerprint was on the murder weapon, why didn't Benke arrest me? I smiled, and for some reason I remembered how we hated it when those Taliban assholes back in Afghanistan smiled at us when we were interrogating them. Yeah, it totally pissed us off and made us feel stupid. That's what our Afghan friends were trying to do, of course, but sometimes it made us feel like we were barking up the wrong tree and made us go into a whole other direction with our thought process. I didn't want to make Benke feel stupid, but I needed to get out of his crosshairs. "Yeah," I said. "I remember handling that barbell. We were walking around and I started joking with Nazarov that there was no way he could do reps with the kind of weight that was on that bar. I mean, he was skinny as hell. So he started joking me back and bet me ten bucks that I couldn't do ten reps with it."

Benke seemed to take my smile in stride. "Did you?" he asked.

"I picked it up and pretended it was too much weight and I put it back down. You don't want to insult a customer who is about to hire you to do more work," I said.

Benke nodded. "What about the blood?" he asked, coming at me from another direction and surprising me.

"What blood?"

"We found some blood on the floor in the work area that did not belong to the victim and I was wondering if you knew anything about that."

Well, I thought, the guy sure was thorough. "I tore my finger open while I was moving some furniture around so I could paint behind it. One of the cabinets had a nail or a staple sticking out of its underside and I poked a hole in my finger as I attempted to move it. Maybe some of it dripped on the floor." I held my finger up for him to see the scab which had formed over the puncture spot that was still evident.

He took my hand and took a close look not only at the puncture wound but at the rest of my hand as well. I'm sure he was looking for evidence that I'd beaten his victim to death. "Looks like it hurt," he said, giving me my hand back. "So you're saying that blood came from you. What about the other blood—outside your house?"

I liked the tone of that question even less, and I knew that sooner or later I was going to run out of explanations. The prick was trying to trap me. "Other blood?" I asked.

"Yes. Do you know there is a significant blood spill at the end of your driveway? I think it could be human blood, and I'll be able to verify that later today."

My mouth suddenly went dry as dust. I took a sip of coffee and forced it down while Benke's eyes stayed on me just as they'd been for the entire interrogation. "Why do you think it's human?" I asked casually. "We got all kinds of critters that come out of these woods and get smooshed on the road up there."

"There was no animal nearby," said Benke. He smiled. "Maybe it crawled away."

"Maybe it did," I said, smiling back. The bastard had me, and I knew it.

"Well, I'll find out," said Benke, and he got up and shook my hand. "Thanks for your time, Mister Blackwell." He turned to leave. "Oh, and one more thing," he said, turning back. "Have you ever heard of UIF Enterprises?"

I looked at him straight on. "Never heard of it," I said. Benke left and Lisa came back into the kitchen.

"Well?" she said nervously.

"I think that guy is definitely after me."

* * * * *

"Aren't you going to work?" I asked Tiny after Benke left.

"I'm going to call in sick again." He tapped his chest and said, "Cough, cough."

"I appreciate what you're doing, Tiny, but I can't ask you to get involved in this any further. You could already be in a lot of trouble."

"Marines don't leave their men behind, Army. The machine shop will survive without me for a couple of days."

"What about Marisol?"

"I've already talked to her. We're cool."

I put down a couple of bottles of water and a bag with some ham and egg sandwiches that Lisa had made, and indicated the horse stall where Nazarov was snoring away. "This is for both of you," I said. "Make sure he eats."

"I don't think that will be a problem, but he's probably going to have to take a dump pretty soon and I'm not wiping him."

I hadn't thought of that. Tiny was telling me we were going to have to liberate him from the homemade restraining device we'd made by chaining his leg to an old tractor tire using a tow chain and a couple of padlocks I had in the workshop. That way he could lay back on the lounge chair and sleep, but he wasn't going anywhere. He'd been that way since the phone call to his fellow conspirators, whoever they were; we still didn't know.

"I'll handle that with him when the time comes," I said to Tiny. "How much longer do you want on this watch?"

"I think I'm good for a couple of more hours," Tiny replied.

"I'll relieve you in one," I said to him, not wanting to take any chances that he'd fall asleep and that Nazarov would somehow get away. "I just need to get cleaned up and tend to Lisa and Scotty."

"Sure, take your time. How'd it go with the detective?" Tiny asked as I turned to leave.

I replied with my back toward him and said, "He found my fingerprints on what he thinks might be the murder weapon."

"I see," said Tiny. "I guess we need to get to the bottom of this pretty soon."

If that wasn't an understatement. I went back to the house where Lisa and Scotty were sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in, something I didn't expect. "Don't you two need to get going?" I asked like it was any other Monday. Looking at Lisa, she was going to need a lot of getting ready, I thought cruelly. Scotty was a total stone face, something I was coming to realize was a preview of the man to come.

"I'm not going to work," said Lisa.

"What about the new client you just landed?"

"I've already called in and the team has got it covered."

"What about you?" I said to Scotty. "Don't you have practice for tomorrow night's game?"

"Getting Rachel back is way more important than any game," he said. "Besides, I think you need help."

He said it in a tone that wasn't very complimentary. "Is that right?" I said.

"It is right," Scotty replied unabashedly. "Tiny can only go so far with this, and you know it."

It was the same discussion I'd just had with Tiny myself.

"And he is only good for you if he doesn't have to move around too much," Scotty added. "I saw how hard it was for him to make it in from that deer stand. He's too old and too fat for what you need, Dad, and you can't do this alone." Scotty looked at Lisa and I knew by the look on his face that he expected her to object. She surprised both of us when she didn't.

"Is that right?" I repeated, not really knowing what else to say.

"Dad, listen. What you need is a scout, someone who can tell you what's out there and what's coming at you. Someone who can move around."

This was a fifteen-year-old boy talking, my fifteen-year-old boy, and he was totally correct. Whatever was going to happen, I was going to be a sitting duck, stuck to Nazarov, and my enemy was going to be aware of my position at all times. Reconnaissance and protection at my rear and my flanks was going to be all important, especially given the fact that I had no fallback position or supporting fire. As such, the element of surprise was going to be a very important aspect of this operation. I felt myself floating off into that quiet zone of preparation before combat where my mind stayed busy with equipment checks and reviewing battle plans, but all that only served the conscious mind while subconsciously I prepared for the possibility that the upcoming encounter might be my last. In the past, it was a time where I put my mind and my soul at ease with what might happen, and it was that preparation that drove the fear aside far enough to let me operate. The fear never really went away completely, and thankfully so because it helped to guard against recklessness.

"Dad? Are you okay?"

I was on the verge of lapsing into a PTSD flashback again; I could tell by the way I was thinking in military terms and military jargon, with my thoughts edging in and out of a gray fog where present mixed with past in an amorphous swirl. Connecting with the loved ones right in front of me was proving difficult as I found myself thinking of them as soldiers rather than family. I needed to stay in the present. I looked at Scotty and said, "I appreciate what you're trying to do, son, but I can't let you risk your life over this."

It was Lisa who said, "This is Rachel we're talking about."

"You're okay with this?" I asked, totally flabbergasted.

"We're all in this together now. Who's going to get her back if we don't?" She handed me a pill and said, "Take your anti-seizure medicine."

* * * * *

At 10:00 a.m. I relieved Tiny so that he could go to the house and get some sleep.

"He hasn't eaten," he said as he left.

Looking into the bag of sandwiches, I saw that three of the four that Lisa had made were still inside. I didn't hear any snoring and I carried the bag and a bottle of water into the horse stall where Nazarov was lying on the lounge chair with his arm over his eyes. He moved it just enough to look at me with one eye, but didn't say anything. I put the bag on the chair next to him. "These are for you."

"Pigs are unclean," he shot back as he brushed the bag off the lounge chair onto the ground. "I don't eat pork." He slid his arm over his eyes again as if to dismiss me. "That bag smells like all of you do."

I stood there gazing down on him, tempted to shove the bag down his throat. Instead, I picked it up and carefully unwrapped the foil on each of the three sandwiches and pulled the slices of ham off each one. I put the bag of now egg sandwiches back on the lounge chair and said, "No pork."

His hunger clearly winning out, he sat up and took a sandwich and ate half of it in two bites. The rest of them were gone a couple of minutes later. "Water," he said, pointing at the bottle in my hand. I tossed it to him and it was gone in seconds.

"Do you want to bathe and go to the bathroom?" I asked. The man was ripe.

"So I could die with dignity?" he said sarcastically.

"I'd already be drinking your blood from a champagne glass if I was going to kill you," I said.

Nazarov chuckled. Ever defiant, he coughed up a red-tinged wad of phlegm and spat it in my direction. "If suffering were a meal, what you did to me would be an appetizer where I come from."

Despite the bravado, he turned his head and looked away. I'd seen that body language before. In order to maintain his self-respect he needed to exhibit his defiance, but he also knew that looking me in the eye would be an unspoken challenge to which I'd be perfectly willing to respond with more of what he'd been through over the last couple of days. He was weak, and he was vulnerable, and I could tell he was scared, but I'm not sure that he was scared of me necessarily. I dragged in a bale of hay and sat down opposite him.

"Tell me where you're from, big man, and why you and your brave friends need to use an innocent child to get what you want."

"Go to hell."

"You'll be there before me," I said. "And you can be sure that's where you're going too. There will be no virgins in heaven for you, scumbag. Why are you making yourself a martyr for people who you just said are more likely to kill you than your enemy is?"

"We all have our motives."

"So you're willing to die for this cause of yours no matter which side kills you. I didn't know killing innocent people had become such a noble calling."

Nazarov started laughing at me again. I really hated it when they did that. "Did I say something funny?"

"I have nothing to fear from you," he said. "You can't even use torture to its ultimate effectiveness. You don't have the stomach for it. Why should I be afraid of you?"

He was right. Having scruples was a real hindrance when it came to killing people who were unarmed and totally defenseless. But then I thought: with Rachel's life at stake, I might end up killing him yet, if I had to. Going back and forth between the two thoughts, I had doubts that I could get Rachel back without him, and he knew it.

"What were you going to do with those W54 schematics?" I asked, changing the subject.

"We were going to make cupcakes," said Nazarov, and I slapped him in the face.

"Your friends said they'd call back within twenty-four hours," I said. "We'll just wait for that call and then we'll see what your life is worth."

"You are such a sucker," said Nazarov, his accent suddenly distinct. He wiped some blood from his lip. "Do you really think my life is worth anything after seeing what they did to my brother? It's the blueprints they want, you fool, not me."

What? I pulled my mental emergency brake. "Did you just say that the man killed at your house was your brother?"

Nazarov froze, his eyes on mine. "I'm a dead man as soon as they get hold of those plans."

That explained why Rachel's captors didn't have the blueprints. Nazarov never gave them the plans after I returned them to him. "Let me get this straight. You're trying to prevent them from getting those blueprints, while at the same time I'm trying to give them the blueprints?"

"Hey, you're sharp."

I shook my head and did a mental double-take. "So where is the envelope with the blood smudge... and who is they?" I asked. "And why are you trying to prevent them from getting those plans?"

"That's three different questions," said Nazarov.

"So answer them," I shouted.

Nazarov said, "Do you have any more water? I would like more water."

I took a moment to try and figure out what was happening. It was clear that we were on opposite sides on the question of what should happen to those plans, but I was beginning to realize that Nazarov himself might not be my ultimate enemy here. I pulled out my cell phone and called the house and asked Scotty to bring more water.

"You should be careful with involving your family members in this and exposing them," Nazarov warned. "They like to use family members as barter. Then again, I don't need to tell you that, do I? It's too bad about your daughter."

"Is that why your brother was killed? To convince you to hand over the blueprints?"

Nazarov nodded. "His name was Husan. The same will happen to the rest of my family if they are found."

"Mother, father?" I asked.

"And my wife and son, and Husan's family as well. They are safe in Russia for now, but they will be hunted down and tortured if I don't give them the plans to build their weapon."

"They, them... who is it that wants to build this device, and what are they planning to do with it?"

Nazarov just looked at the dirt and shook his head. "It's a long story."

"Are you going anywhere?" I asked.

"It won't change what happened to your daughter."

Scotty arrived with the water and I handed a bottle to Nazarov. "Is this something he should hear?" I asked him, referring to Scotty, and Nazarov shrugged. "Go on," I said as Scotty sat down on the bale next to me.

"In 2016 the longtime leader of Uzbekistan died," Nazarov began. "His name was Islam Karimov. Since then, a successor has come to power, but he was not the only one looking to take over the government upon Karimov's death. One group in particular was looking to fill the vacuum, but they were not successful due to the fact that Karimov's successor promised to liberalize the country and do away with many of the autocratic policies and practices Karimov used to maintain power. Thousands of people were imprisoned under Karimov's rule, and the country has had one of the worst records in the world on human rights for decades." Nazarov opened the bottle of water, took a drink. "One of the groups vying for power was called the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, or the IMU."

"I think I've heard that name before, on one of my tours in Afghanistan," I said. "They did a lot of fighting with al Qaeda over there, right?"

"That's correct," said Nazarov. "And like al Qaeda, and as a result of its practices, the IMU was labeled a terrorist organization during Karimov's rule. Because of that, Karimov went after them, saying that he was trying to rid the country of terrorists, but in reality he used that as an excuse to go after political enemies. After his death, his successor loosened up on cultural restrictions and gave recognition to Islamic religion and culture, which took away a lot of the IMU's reason for fighting the government and for its existence as an organization. Rather than seeing that as a victory, however, an even more radical group within the IMU broke away, revealing the fact that one of its major motivations was gaining political power as opposed to securing the freedom to practice Islam as a religion within the country."

It was complicated, and I was listening closely trying to follow what Nazarov was saying. Scotty, however, was right on it.

"So it's this ultra-radical splinter group that wants the schematics for the miniature nuclear weapon, and they are the ones who have taken Rachel," he said.

"Smart kid you have there," Nazarov said to me. "They call themselves the Uzbek Islamic Front, and their ultimate goal is to overthrow the current leader and install a radical Islamic government similar to what you are seeing others trying to do in the Middle East. They are looking to spread radical Islamic practices to Central Asia and using terrorism is their main method of educating the world about their cause."

I was still looking at Scotty as Nazarov completed his last couple of sentences, and I had to pry my eyes away. "Why haven't we heard about this Uzbek Islamic Front group before?" I asked.

"Because up to now all of the terrorist acts they've perpetrated have been inside the country. Still, in this supposed new age of liberalization, a lot of news does not get outside the borders."

Everything Nazarov said made sense, but for all I knew it could have simply been a well-constructed narrative he'd made up for any number of reasons, primary among them being to shift the focus of his being in possession of the W54 schematics to someone else. I mean, how did I know he wasn't one of the terrorists from the Uzbek Islamic Front he'd just described, looking to kill maybe 50,000 or 100,000 people for a cause no one cared about?

I gave Nazarov a moment and said, "This Uzbek Islamic Front group, are they the ones who also killed your brother?"

Not looking at me, he nodded and said, "As a lesson to me, I think."

"Lesson how?"

"That I should have stayed out of their business. I got involved with my brother—and as a byproduct with them—and now I needed to pay for it. It was my brother who obtained those drawings, and he was looking to make a deal with the UIF. I had no idea those drawings were inside the house."

Okay, right, sure. Hopefully I only looked like I was born yesterday. "Of course," I said sarcastically. "You're totally innocent, a victim. How can I not see that?"

"Dad, let him talk," said Scotty as he gave me a stare.

"You should listen to your son," said Nazarov. "He's smarter than you."

I tried to ignore the remark, aggravated by the fact that it was probably true. "You said your brother obtained those blueprints. How did he get them?"

"I'm afraid I don't have the exact answer to that, but my brother could get anything. I suspect he obtained them to get his wife and children out of Russia and back into Uzbekistan."

"But those blueprints were classified," I protested. "You can't just buy them from Amazon, or something."

"I'm afraid it's almost that easy sometimes. Bribing your government officials is fairly routine. Sometimes all you need is a press pass and you get it for free."

"Routine for whom?" I shot back.

"Routine for anyone who works as a double agent," said Nazarov. "My brother was a spy, and I think he was working both sides of the street."

I kind of chuckled. "C'mon," I said. "An Uzbek spy? Who would believe—"

"Not Uzbek," Nazarov interrupted. "He worked for the Russians. He had a lot of money flowing to him to purchase those plans, and he had even more flowing back to the Russians from the UIF to purchase the plutonium that would eventually make their version of the W54 the most deadly terrorist weapon ever known."

Scotty said, "Geez, Dad."

Geez Dad, indeed. "Where would this UIF group get that kind of money?"

Nazarov shrugged. "I didn't get that deep into it, but I suspect it was from other terrorist organizations who wanted some of the finished product. My part was simply living in that house and pretending to be my brother in order to give him a front and the freedom to operate behind the scenes."

"That house wasn't yours?" I asked.

"None of what you saw was mine. It was all set up as an alias for him. Not even the name Nazarov is real. You will not find it connected with that house or even with any of the cars there. They are all owned by a company called UIF Enterprises."

My throat tightened, as did my stomach as I recalled the conversation with Whitney Valentine. "You know about UIF Enterprises?" I asked. "What are they? Who are they?"

"Not sure," Nazarov replied. "Something that will probably lead you to a black hole if you try to investigate it."

"What about here, in the U.S.? Who was your brother's connection here?"

Again, Nazarov shrugged. "Not sure. One of the intelligence agencies, I think. CIA, or maybe DIA due to the military nature of what he was buying."

My head was starting to spin. What had I stumbled into? How was I going to get myself, and more importantly my family, out of this?

Seeing me struggle with my thoughts, Scotty asked, "What was this UIF group going to do with the nuclear thing once they got it built?"

"They were going to build more of them," said Nazarov. "And as I said a moment ago, I think they were going to sell them to other terrorist organizations." Nazarov looked at me and said, "You are concerned with only one of those weapons. Think about a hundred, or two hundred of them, or a thousand. Try that on for size and tell me how that feels."

"Where are the blueprints I gave back to you?" I asked. "The set with the blood smudge on the envelope."

"The answer to that is back at the house on Meetinghouse Road," Nazarov replied. "But you'll never find them. Those drawings are something everybody wants, and as such, they're my insurance policy. I stay alive if I'm the only one who knows where they are."

"So you hid them under a credenza cabinet?" I said. "Really?"

"That was my brother's doing, I'm afraid. I didn't know they were under there, or why he put them there instead of hiding them somewhere else."

"I've still got the ones I printed out from my phone," I said. "I can use those to trade for Rachel and you're shit out of luck."

"Good luck with that," said Nazarov. "You may not have noticed that each sheet on those blueprints has a seal, made with an embosser to indicate their authenticity. The seal is raised, and even if it is visible on the copy the texture won't be there. However you got them, your copies will instantly be detected as such and your daughter's captors will know that you are not giving them the originals with no altered details that would be undetectable to the untrained eye and would prevent the device from being built properly. Handing those copies to your daughter's kidnappers would be a death sentence for you and her both."

I did notice the seal when I'd originally handled the blueprints, but I didn't know why it was there. What Nazarov said made sense. "That means we have to get hold of those original drawings, the ones with the blood smudge on the envelope," I said. "I guess we're going for a ride."

* * * * *

I needed to take some time to assess things and plan my next move. My entire outlook on the situation had changed within the last hour. First of all, I realized that Nazarov—I now realized the name was an alias and I'd have to look into that, but I had other things to worry about for the time being—wasn't going to be the one to determine if I got Rachel back. In fact, Nazarov probably didn't even know where she was. I was dealing with an entire new entity now, the Uzbek Islamic Front, and the only thing I knew about them outside of the fact that they wanted to use the W54 to kill a great many innocent people, was that they were yet another group of radical Islamic crazies, crazies that did things like tie people to a chair and throw them off the top of buildings for saying the wrong prayer or something. Crazy didn't mean stupid, however, which meant they'd have their bases covered and it was unlikely that they would walk into any traps.

As for Nazarov himself, he was useless outside of the fact that he knew where the authentic W54 blueprints were located, and as soon as these UIF assholes got hold of them, he was toast. The more I thought about it, it wasn't out of the question that instead of leading me to those blueprints, he could lead me into a setup where I would be the toast and he could use the blueprints to try and save his own skin and that of his family members. Okay then, I had the UIF people who I knew wanted to kill me, I had Nazarov who probably wanted to kill me, but certainly would have no problem with me buying the farm through some other means such as a bullet to the heart, and I had a Detective Benke who probably thought I had beaten someone to death up-close-and-personal like with a hunk of steel from a barbell.

I also had other things to consider, among them being Lisa and her state of mind. I felt like I was losing her. Not only was she worried about my state of mind, she was on the verge of losing one of her children, and the pressure on her was enormous. I could see her leaning on Scotty more and more, and I knew she was latching on to any hope, any ploy that might get Rachel back. She even seemed to be encouraging Scotty to get involved in that, and although Scotty was certainly willing, he could not be my physical and emotional substitute, something Lisa didn't seem willing to recognize, or just plain couldn't. It was a weakness I hadn't anticipated in her, but perhaps that's being overly critical; I don't know. I'm not a mother and clearly I didn't understand the bond between a mother and her daughter. Losing Rachel would shatter her, and it dawned on me that if I wasn't playing Jekyll and Hyde with my own consciousness I would be able to help her through this crisis. Instead, I was adding to it, and the weight of trying to control what was happening to me combined with the weight of Rachel's abduction was crushing her. She was losing her world, and I wasn't helping. I needed to do something about that, and to tell the truth, I wasn't sure if I was strong enough to do it.

Scotty, however, was a rock, seemingly there for his mother and openly willing to support her and do his part to get Rachel back, and be my wingman. The kid was fifteen, going on forty. I couldn't have been prouder, but I was afraid of losing him too. Like Lisa, I needed him in the worst way, but for a different reason, which was that I knew I couldn't get Rachel back alone and that what he had said was true: Tiny was just too old and too fat. I couldn't believe I was actually thinking of using him to help me, and I couldn't believe Lisa actually seemed to be in favor of it. There was my confusion floating up to the surface again. Either both Lisa and Scotty didn't understand what we could be facing, which is what I believe was the case, or they'd already accepted the fact that there was no other choice and if the Blackwells were going down, we were all going down together as a family.

It wasn't a decision I was willing to make on my own, and I woke Tiny and asked him to stay with Nazarov while I went and found Lisa. She was in the bedroom, and it didn't take a genius to see that she'd been crying. I sat on the bed next to her. "I'm not sure I can handle this," I said to her. "If you want, we can call the police and hand the whole thing over to them." Her eyes and nose raw from weeping, she took my hand and looked at me, but she couldn't get the words out and collapsed onto me. I just let her go, caressing her hair as she cried with her head in my lap. It was one of the most awful sounds I think I'd ever heard.

"What do you think will happen if we do that?" she asked after a while.

I tried to be emotional with her. I did. But the more she cried and the more she turned herself inside out with hurt, the harder, angrier, and the more stoic I found myself becoming. "If we're dealing with the type of people I think we're dealing with, I think what they said is true and if we call in the police we'll never see Rachel again. Right now I think we're lucky that the police don't have anything to go on, or maybe they think Rachel is a runaway."

She just sat there looking at me and the seconds ticked away. Sniffling, sobbing, "What do you want to do?" she asked, putting it back on me.

It took everything I had to say it because I figured she'd think I was just being macho, but I said, "I would rather take the chance and have Rachel's fate in our control rather than handing it over to someone else and feel totally helpless. If Rachel dies, I would want to think that I did everything in my power to save her, even if I lost my own life in the process, and I don't think I could live with the guilt if I didn't do that." I waited ten seconds and said, "That's what I think."

What she said next I didn't see coming. "What do you think will happen to us if we lose her?" she asked.

"You mean the family?"

"I mean you and me, Jake. I don't know if I can handle losing Rachel and then losing you too. I don't know if I can take it."

"What do you mean, losing me too? I'm not going anywhere."

She shook her head the way a mommy shakes her head at a child who doesn't know any better. She took me by the shoulders and held me at arm's length. "The TBI, Jake. The PTSD, and the blackouts. I'm already losing you. I don't know if you're here one minute, or if you're back fighting in some battle in Iraq. I need you, Jake. I need you in my life the way I love you now. I need you to be the loving, caring Jake that would do anything for his family and who loves them, not just protects them like it's part of some mission."

Oh-oh, I thought. I was on the verge of losing her. I stared at her with the knowledge that I could lose everything I had, and I didn't know what to say. I moved off the bed and left her there. If I was going to save my world, I needed to talk to Scotty.

* * * * *

It was just before lunch and I found Scotty in the barn with Tiny. They were outside horse stall and I heard Tiny say, "So who do you think was the best second baseman to ever play the game? For my money it was Rod Carew."

"I don't think so," said Scotty. "Carew was great, all right, but I think Craig Biggio was at the front of the pack in almost every offensive category, plus he was an all-star catcher as well. He could play anywhere. I also think Joe Morgan is up there at the top."

"Tiny, could I have a minute with Scotty?" I asked as they saw me coming.

"Take your time," said Tiny. "I'm not going anywhere."

I put my arm around Scotty and took him outside the barn. "Is Mom all right?" he asked. "I don't think she's doing too good."

"She's not," I said. "It's like everything in her world just came down around her."

Scotty nodded. "So we need to find those original blueprints in order to even have a chance of making things right again." It was half question, half conclusion. "So what's the plan, Dad?"

His eyes were steady and serene, and I needed him if I was to save my family. "I think you're right," I said. "I think I need a scout. How fast can you run, Son?"

"I'll run as fast as you need me to run."

"This could be dangerous."

"Let's see," he said. "Rachel's life is at stake, Mom is a wreck, and I'm not real sure about how you're doing. The way I see it, I don't know if I have any choice if we're going to save this family."

"That's my boy," I said.

Chapter 13... Meetinghouse Road

Monday, April 28th, 12:52 p.m. Whatever was going to happen, I knew we needed to get back to Meetinghouse Road. We used Tiny's Explorer and I put Scotty up front with him while I sat in the back with Nazarov. Nazarov came at me from another angle and explained to me—again—that a great many people would die if the UIF got hold of those blueprints. The man was sly, all right, but I wasn't buying his nobility act. Among the great many people that would die would be him, first and foremost. To the UIF, he was a loose end that needed to be trimmed off and everything he was saying was to save his own ass. Finally I said to him, "You said your family is safe inside Russia. My daughter is not. What would you do if you were me?" He didn't say much after that, but I didn't trust him as far as he could fart and I zip-tied his feet together just in case he had any wild ideas about jumping out of the Explorer and taking off.

I looked at the dashboard clock and noted that it was almost 1:00 p.m. The weather overnight had turned cold and rainy with a light drizzle puddling on everything. I was wearing jeans and my camo hunting jacket which enabled me to keep my Beretta M9 out of sight in a shoulder harness, and my .45 caliber Colt in a holster clipped to my belt. My KA-BAR knife was in its sheath and Velcroed to my ankle underneath my jeans, and I had two extra magazines for each pistol in my pockets. The most important thing I was carrying, however, was Nazarov's cell phone, which we made sure to charge so as not to miss any call to arrange a trade of the blueprints for Rachel. Twenty-four hours the dirtbag had said the previous night; they'd call back in twenty-four hours to arrange the trade. A little more than half of that time was already gone. I had no doubt that the UIF people were trying to figure out how to take out me and Nazarov both and still get hold of the blueprints.

As if he knew what I was thinking, Tiny called from the front seat, "You got a lot of people after you, Army. I hope you're ready and able."

"Copy that. Tell me something I don't know," I said, feeling that I was as ready as I was going to be.

"Did you take your pill?" Scotty asked me, referring to my anti-seizure medicine.

"Got it, Son. Thanks for reminding me." Nazarov was taking it all in, his eyes shifting back and forth. "Relax, numbnuts. Your life expectancy is significantly higher in here with us than it is out there."

It was about a half-hour drive from Dickerson to Potomac and Tiny took the wet, slippery curves along Meetinghouse Road with care. "Pass by the house once at normal speed," I said, and Tiny did as I asked. I spotted a couple of cars in the U-shaped driveway, neither of them being any of the four cars I remembered from Nazarov's garage. "Did those cars look familiar?" I asked Nazarov after we passed, and he shook his head no.

"Pull off Meetinghouse Road and find a spot on one of the side roads," I said, figuring there would be hardly any traffic on those roads as they were lined with mansions and basically served as public driveways to the houses there. As requested, Tiny took the next right and found a cozy little spot surrounded by tall pines where we could figure the next move. Nazarov's house was about a quarter of a mile away. "We need to get a better look at what's happening at that house," I said, and as soon as I did Scotty hiked his foot up on the seat and tightened the laces on his Nikes.

"I suppose you'd like to know about those cars and who might be in that house," he said.

He looked at me nervously and it was apparent that he was still a fifteen-year-old kid. "I don't want you taking any chances," I said, suddenly having second thoughts about having taken him along. I glanced at Tiny who had turned and was looking at me from the front seat. I half expected him to object and tell me that I was putting an innocent boy into harm's way, but he didn't. I read something in his eyes that told me there was a moment in every man's life where he crossed the line from boy to man and this was Scotty's time. I shifted my attention back to Scotty with another expectation that he might try and back out, but the look on my face either reassured him or scared him more than what he was about to do. Either way, I saw him swallow his apprehension as if he was swallowing a brick.

"I'll be careful," he said. He leveled a gaze on Nazarov and asked, "What's behind that house? Is it another house, or woods, or what?"

"There's a back deck and patio and a back yard. The rest of the property is wooded acreage."

"How much acreage?" I asked.

"Quite a bit," said Nazarov. "All the houses around here are on two or three acre lots and are surrounded by woods for privacy."

I looked at Scotty and he said, "I got this, Dad." He put on his Washington Nationals hat and opened the door on the Explorer. "I'll call you," he called back into the vehicle.

He did a couple of stretches and took off. Twenty yards into it his feet were a blur as he rounded the corner onto Meetinghouse Road like an Olympic runner. The only sound after that was the random pitter-patter of water drops coming off the trees onto the roof of the Explorer. I snapped a glare at Nazarov. "You better hope nothing happens to him," I snarled, and I think he knew better than to crack wise with me. We sat there a while and I nearly jumped out of my skin when my cell phone rang. "Yeah," I said.

"Dad, how can you tell if a car is a police car?" Scotty's voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Well, usually it has lights on the roof and it says police on the side."

"Dad, some credit, huh? I'm talking about the unmarked kind."

"Oh, right. Well, unmarked cars often have a big spotlight next to the outside mirror, and if you look inside the front grill and inside the rear windshield you'll probably see some blue and red police lights. Also, sometimes there's a computer setup on the center console."

"That's what I thought," said Scotty. "I think one of the cars is definitely a cop car. I think it's the same car that was at our house this morning when that detective came to see you."

I froze momentarily. "You know about that?"

"Like I said, some credit, huh? I was listening the whole time." Scotty must have felt my distress because he added, "It's okay Dad. I know you didn't kill the guy the detective was asking you about, but I think maybe he thought otherwise."

Nazarov shot me a snotty little laugh and I turned down the ear volume on the phone. Scotty was talking about Benke, and I remembered the car from when I watched him on Saturday afternoon. "Is it a brown Ford?" I asked.

"Yeah, and the other car is almost identical except that it's black."

My first thought was that Benke was looking for additional evidence and he'd brought along some help. With my fingerprint on that barbell bar, I figured he was looking to nail my ass and the only reason that hadn't happened yet was that he needed more proof that the bar was the murder weapon. That had to be the only thing standing in the way of my hearing the words: _You have the right to remain silent_.

As if he was inside my head, Scotty said, "I don't think the black one is a cop car, Dad."

"Why not?" I asked, noticing that Nazarov and Tiny were both listening closely.

"The brown car has Maryland plates but the black car does not. Those plates say _U.S. Government, For Official Use Only_ on them."

"How close to those cars are you, Scotty? I don't want you getting caught," I said frantically. "Back off, back off now."

"Relax, Dad. No one can see me, but I don't see anything going on inside the house. Do you want me to get closer?"

"Scotty, what did I just say?" Suddenly, Tiny was waving at me. "What?" I snapped.

"The prefixes," Tiny snapped back. "Ask him about the prefix letters on the license plates."

"I heard," said Scotty. "The prefix letters on the brown car are MC."

"That means Montgomery County," Tiny said loudly so that Scotty could hear. "The Montgomery County police use MC as the prefix for their license plate numbers."

"How do you know that?" I asked Tiny.

"What does it matter? I just know, okay? Scotty, what about the other car?" Tiny called loudly.

Immediately, Scotty replied, "DIA. The prefix letters on the U.S. government plates are D-I-A."

I noticed that Nazarov smiled a smarmy little smile while Tiny said, "Oh shit."

"What?" I said to Tiny.

"DIA is for Defense Intelligence Agency, Army. Hattie McCloskey has gotten in on this and he must have sent one of his boys after you."

"So? What does that mean?"

"You know better than to ask that question. These guys deal with bad actors all over the world and I'll bet Hattie's radar went off as soon as he saw those blueprints. He also knows your daughter is being held for ransom and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that you want those blueprints so that you can make a trade for her."

"How the hell does he know about Rachel?"

"Well, I kind of told him."

"Kind of?"

"I had no choice, Army. He's trying to prevent that trade from happening. He wants you, Army, and he wants this asshole even more." Tiny pointed a thumb at Nazarov.

First, it was Nazarov who'd come after me. Then it was the fine folks from the Uzbek Islamic Front. Next came the Montgomery County police, and now the Defense Intelligence Agency was barking up my tree at the request of the Vice Director for Intelligence for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, for Christ's sake. Usually it felt good to be wanted. Here, not so much. "I'm starting to feel a bit of a squeeze," I said to Tiny.

"Ya' think?" he said.

"Scotty, get back here right away," I said into the phone. "You got that?"

"Copy that," said Scotty. "Be there in five minutes."

"What now?" said Tiny. "Going back to your place is probably not a good idea, and if Hattie is involved going to my place is probably not a good idea either. By the way, I wouldn't be surprised if our cell phones are being tracked."

Tiny was right, of course, and I could only think of one other person who might be able to help us if we were going to get hold of those blueprints. The clock was ticking and I felt like we were running out of time.

* * * * *

"Where are we?" Scotty asked as we waited outside the house.

"A friend of mine lives here," I answered. It was ten after two and there was no car in the driveway and the windows were dark.

"What are we doing here?" Scotty went on.

" _You_ are not doing anything here. I want you to go back to your mother. She needs someone right now and you need to be a man for her. Can you do that for me, Son?" I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to be steady for him.

"What about you?" he asked pleadingly.

I was getting really annoyed with people worrying about me. Yeah, I know, but that's how I felt. "I'll be fine," I said curtly. "I want you to stay with your mother and I want both of you to go back to the original plan and leave the house. Now, your mother has a pistol; you've seen it. I want you to tell her to stay armed, and if she doesn't take it, I want you to take it. Can you handle that?"

"Sure, Dad. I already have. Mom's pistol is with your deer rifle. I was carrying it when I found you at the deer stand last night. Mom told me to take it to protect myself."

"That's my boy," I said to him, thinking the night before seemed like a decade ago. "Tiny, can you get him back to the house?"

"Of course, but what about you?" he asked, just as Scotty had.

"Don't worry about me. My friend will help me."

"Who's this friend?" Tiny asked curiously.

"Never mind that, okay? Can you just make sure Scotty and Lisa are safe?"

"Do you want me to come back?"

"No."

"That's it? No? You don't want to tell me why we're here?"

"Right. I mean, no, I don't. Can you just make sure—"

"Yeah, right, I got it."

Tiny gave me a look and more than a puff of attitude. Can't say as I blamed him.

"Maybe I should take them to my place," he said. "That would probably be better than them being on their own."

Again, Tiny's stink eye was more than evident. "Good idea," I said. "And I want you to take my cell phone and leave it at the house just in case it's being tracked like you said. Scotty, can I take yours for the time being?"

"Sure, Dad," he said, handing me his cell. I still had Nazarov's phone too, the one that the kidnappers were supposed to call to arrange the trade, the trade that I was now starting to doubt would happen, or could happen seeing as I didn't have the blueprints in hand.

I pulled my KA-BAR and cut the zip tie around Nazarov's ankles. "Let's go, square ass," I said to him, and I pulled him out of the Explorer. I poked my head back into the vehicle and gave Tiny a look that I hoped he would understand. "Thanks, Tiny. Take care of my family, okay? I'll call you."

Tiny threw his hands in the air and said, "Whatever you say Army," and he drove off. I don't think he understood.

* * * * *

Nazarov and I stood there playing pocket pool for a while because like the bonehead that I was, I neglected to take down Whitney Valentine's phone number before I gave my phone to Scotty. I could have called him, I guess, but I knew he'd tell Lisa where we were and I just didn't want the aggravation of getting the third degree about Whitney again. We were pretty obvious standing there in front of the house, and I bet there were probably a couple of busybodies watching us who simply loved to spread juicy rumors about Whitney. Hoping someone hadn't already called the cops, I took us around back. I tried the patio door, which was locked, and then I tried the door to the mud room. The door latch was loose and jiggling, and a minute with my KA-BAR and we were in. As in my previous visits to Whitney's place, we were immediately confronted with the smell of vanilla potpourri.

"It smells like a whorehouse in here," said Nazarov.

I turned and pointed my KA-BAR at him. "Shut the hell up and sit down on the floor—and try to not get anything dirty." Looking at him, I figured that would be hard to do. I walked to the picture window in the living room and peeked through the shutter blinds, hoping Whitney would drive up any second.

"Is this who we're waiting for?" Nazarov questioned as he examined a photo of some people on a cruise ship. Dressed in a sarong wrap and a bathing suit top that wasn't much bigger than a couple of sea shells strung together, Whitney was the obvious center of attention. Even in the picture her smile was brilliant and it jumped out of the frame. "Is she your mistress?"

"I told you to sit down and shut up," I repeated. Nazarov was starting to wear thin on me. "Maybe I should just shoot you and take my chances," I said. That got Nazarov's attention, all right, but he was starting to know me.

"What, and mess up all this pretty furniture?" he said snidely. "You're not going to shoot me. You actually need me."

I was starting to lose my grip on him, and I knew from my days in Iraq and Afghanistan that once that happened the only thing that would recapture a prisoner's cooperation was putting him through even more pain than he'd already been through. Either that, or dangling a carrot for him. As for the former solution, I didn't think I had it in me to torture him any more than I already had. Some guys got their rocks off on beating up on defenseless enemies, I didn't, and I was never the right man for that part of the job despite what I'd already done to Nazarov.

"Need you for what?" I said. "Once I find those original blueprints, you're dead meat."

"No, I don't think so," he responded calmly. "From the way your fat friend has been talking, you obviously know someone high in the government who wants those blueprints as badly as you do. I suspect this person, whoever he is, is in a much better position to give me what I want than you are." Nazarov smiled at me. "If you had just let well enough alone and not stuck your nose where it didn't belong, none of us would be this position."

I felt my neck starting to burn. The son of a bitch was right. I'd dug my own hole and now I was neck deep in it, having pulled my friend and my family into it to the point where we could all get buried in it and never be heard from again. "I've already told you twice to sit down and shut up," I said, not wanting to hear any more from Nazarov. "Don't make me say it again."

He didn't let me off the hook, however and continued to annoy me. "What time is it?" he asked.

I knew what he was doing. He was calling my attention to the fact that there were only eight or nine hours left before the twenty-four hour window expired for the kidnappers to call back. I felt my jaw muscles working and I glanced at a clock that sat atop a tea table that Whitney had covered with a frilly table cover. It read 2:13 p.m. "You can see the same clock I can," I said smartly.

"What makes you think they are going to honor that timetable? They could be on our trail and ready to kill us right now. Nothing you've done is so damned tricky that a ten-year-old couldn't figure it out."

I pulled my .45 from my hip and aimed it at him. "If they don't honor it, you're history."

"And if they do honor it, you don't have the blueprints." Nazarov began to laugh, and it sounded louder by the second. "Go ahead, _Army!"_ he cackled, mimicking Tiny's nickname for me. "Pull the trigger and you'll never see your daughter again."

I held steady until my fingertips turned white and the inside my skull felt like a pressure cooker. My hand started to shake and the .45 began rattling against my fingers. My view started to blur, going from dark to blinding white and back again. I felt myself going weak, and I knew that if I didn't control the stress I was feeling I would go into another blackout and I might never see Rachel or the rest of my family again. Lowering the weapon, putting my hands on my knees, I took half a dozen deep breaths trying to get some oxygen to my brain cells to hopefully relieve the pressure there. It did nothing but make my dizzy and I stood there holding my KA-BAR in one hand and my .45 in the other, waiting to see if I was going to pass out. If there was any time where Nazarov could have attacked me where I was totally defenseless, that was it. The episode passed and I took a seat in one of Whitney's pastel-colored chairs in the same jeans that had just been in Tiny's grubby Explorer. Once again, I told Nazarov to sit down on the floor, and surprisingly, he did. I stumbled over and put my last two zip ties around his ankles and his wrists, and I went into Whitney's office to look for one of her business cards that would have her cell phone number on it.

* * * * *

Whitney peeled into the driveway and barreled into the garage at exactly 3:00 p.m., barely clearing the garage door that was still on its way up as she squealed to a stop. Slamming the door on her Mini so hard that it shook the walls inside the house, she stepped into the kitchen and the sound of her heels against the desert tile floor there rang out like firecrackers: _click... click... click... click...._ Rounding the corner, she stopped and took me in first in my camo jacket and looking like I'd just stepped from a Rambo movie, and Nazarov next who looked like road kill lying on her living room carpet.

"Whatever this is, Jakey, you had better have a damned good reason for bringing..." Her eyes swiveled over to Nazarov. "... _that_ in here with you."

I got off her chair and she suddenly saw the KA-BAR and the .45. Abruptly, she took a step back and sucked in some air like she was trying to inhale a pigeon. "I... I had nowhere else to go," I stammered weakly. "They have my daughter."

She did a double take, swinging her sparkling gold earrings furiously. "What do you mean, they have your daughter? They have her... how?"

"She's been kidnapped," I snapped out. My eyes told her I was serious.

"Oh, my... Jakey. Really?"

She started fidgeting in place, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. I put the .45 and the KA-BAR down and walked to her, stopping her from trying to stuff one hand inside the other. "It's a long story," I said sincerely. "But I can explain if you let me. I need your help, Whitney. Lisa and I both do." She looked at me and I could see her eyes go glossy.

"Does this have anything to do with that house on Meetinghouse Road?" she asked. I nodded and she pulled her hands away and took off the expensive-looking trench coat she was wearing, revealing a pair of snug silk pants and an equally expensive-looking sweater. "I'll make some coffee," she said quickly, spearing Nazarov with a contemptuous sneer. "Try to keep _it_ off the furniture."

I noticed Nazarov following her with his eyes as she walked away. "How do you Americans say it... nice rack?" he growled lowly.

"I heard that!" Whitney called back from the kitchen, and I walked over to Nazarov and kicked him in the ribs.

"What's the matter with him?" she asked when she came back a minute later.

"He just stepped on his tongue."

She settled into a coral-colored lounge chair and looked at me nervously. "You're scaring me, Jakey. Maybe we should be calling the police."

"No!" I blurted. "Please, hear me out. If you decide you can't help me I'll go away quietly, but whatever you do please don't call the police. My daughter's life depends on it." I could see her retreat in the chair and the lines on her face suddenly became more rigid.

Her eyes settled on Nazarov again. "Who is Mister Charming?"

"That's the guy from the Meetinghouse Road house, Nazarov."

Her eyebrows arched. "I thought you told me he was dead."

"I thought he was, but it turns out it was his brother who was killed inside that house and not him."

"Too bad," she said sarcastically, to which Nazarov mumbled something in another language. I'm sure it wasn't pleasant.

"You're probably wondering what this has to do with my daughter."

"I don't even know what _this_ is, Jakey."

"Let me explain," I said, and I did, the whole story, starting with, "We don't have a lot of time."

When I was done, Whitney said, "Oh my God, Jakey, _terrorists?_ Nuclear weapons? You can't be serious." She shot a venomous glare at Nazarov and started pacing, wearing a path in her plush white carpet. "Am I safe even talking to you?" she asked indignantly. "I mean, we're friends Jake, but how dare you come in here like this and assume that I would...." She paused. "... do whatever the hell it is you want me to do. I don't even know what that is yet."

I hadn't expected that reaction, partly because I was so wrapped up in what I needed to do that I could think of nothing else. It also explained what a jackass I was when it came to other peoples' feelings, and it made me all the more thankful that a woman like Lisa had been by my side all these years. "Please," I begged, and I felt the pressure start to build inside my skull just as it had earlier.

"Oh-oh," said Nazarov. "He's starting to go down again."

I got up and staggered toward him but I never made it there. Collapsing into another chair, I grabbed for my .45 out of instinct more than anything else.

Whitney rushed over and put her hand on my forehead. "What's happening?" she asked urgently.

"He's going into another seizure," said Nazarov. "He could go into a blackout."

Fifteen minutes later I was sitting in the middle of Whitney's living room floor popping another anti-seizure pill. I noticed that my .45 and my M9 were both out and sitting on the floor next to Whitney who was kneeling a few feet away from me. To say she looked concerned would be a bit of an understatement. "What happened?" I asked, shifting looks between her and Nazarov.

"Nothing happened," she said unconvincingly.

Nazarov still had the zip ties around his wrists and ankles and I wondered if he still tried to assault her in some way. I speared him with a stare and he looked away.

"You can't stay here, Jake, not with him," she said nervously. "If you came here to get more information about UIF Enterprises or the couple from Hong Kong who bought that house, I don't know anything more than what I've already told you."

"I'm not here about that," I said, hoping she wasn't going to throw me out immediately.

"Then tell me what you want."

"I need to get into that house."

She glared at Nazarov. "Then why don't you ask your friend for the key?" I gave her a look. Seeing it, she said, "So I guess breaking in is out of the question."

"I've already considered that, but I know from working there that the windows and doors are wired to a security system. I can't risk breaking in and then getting caught inside. If that happens, I'll never see Rachel again."

Whitney got up off the floor and made a _that's it_ move with her hands. Indeed, she said, "I can't deal with this, Jake. I'm a real estate agent, not a burglar. What makes you think I can get into that house?"

"And being a real estate agent, I figure you've run into this situation before."

She took a moment trying to figure out what I was implying. "You mean getting into an empty house? I have, Jake, but I've always called someone for the key, or called a locksmith. I've never actually broken in to a house before." She shook her head like this was something I should have known, and maybe it was. "And even if I had a key," she went on, "there's always the security alarm to disarm once you're inside."

"I know the alarm code," I said, and I jagged my head toward Nazarov. "He gave it to me."

"It still comes down to having a key to get in," she said. "Why would you think I'd have one?"

"I don't," I said calmly. "But you know the real estate agent who listed the house last time it was on the market. I'll bet you guys end up with keys all the time after a house is sold. Agents forget about them, new owners change the locks, stuff like that."

Whitney paused. "Sometimes," she said. "And you're wondering if Sissy Mayhugh might still have one."

I looked at Nazarov and he was just staring at us. "I need to get into that house, Whitney. If this Mayhugh lady doesn't have a key I'd have no choice but to break in and take my chances that the alarm hasn't been set since the murder took place four days ago."

Whitney's eyes darted between me and Nazarov. "I'll call Sissy, Jake, but whether she has a key or not I want you and smelly pants out of here as soon as possible." Changing the subject, she asked, "Can I get in trouble if anyone finds out I'm helping you?"

My features froze and I didn't quite know how to interpret the subsequent look on her face.

"You never said what you're looking for," she said.

From across the room Nazarov shouted, "It doesn't matter what you do, lady. He'll never find it."

"What if that's true?" Whitney questioned. "Does that mean you won't get your daughter back?"

"That, and I guess it will also mean that two brothers will have died inside that house," I replied as I looked at Nazarov.

# Part Four

# Take Down

Chapter 14... Whitney's House

Monday, April 28th, 3:16 p.m. Having just come back from the crime scene on Meetinghouse Road, Benke looked at his watch and took a seat, hoping the ever-present chemical smell wouldn't make him sick. Where the hell was Toscano? There were a million loose ends in this case and he needed to tie a few of them up, especially after what he'd learned after his morning court appearance. What a colossal waste of time that had been. He didn't even make it to the stand due to yet another delay in the trial.

The first loose end was still the identity of the deceased. Blackwell was probably telling the truth after seeing the victim's photo and indicating that it wasn't Nazarov, but Blackwell was one cool customer, thought Benke, and the man's body language made him skeptical. No doubt Blackwell knew more than what he was telling. He'd follow his instincts on that, Benke determined, but he needed to rule out any other possible suspects and that's why he needed Toscano. One step at a time, he thought, and he reviewed his Monday afternoon agenda.

First, he was supposed to track down the owners of the six sets of prints found in the construction area inside the murder house. He was fairly certain that would turn out as he expected, which was that those six people were workers involved in the renovation work and had nothing to do with the murder. Another set that Toscano had found appeared throughout the house, and Benke speculated that those belonged to the cleaning lady. If that was right, she should be able to verify that the victim was indeed not Nazarov just as Blackwell had indicated, or maybe even put a positive ID on the body. That left two additional sets of prints that Toscano had found outside the construction area, one of them being Blackwell's, the others belonging to the presumed resident of the house, but which did not match with those of the deceased.

In addition, he needed to know if Toscano had run the two blood samples he'd given him the day before for DNA, those being the sample from the end of Blackwell's driveway, the other being the blood drop he'd scraped from under the piece of furniture in the construction area. If Blackwell was telling the truth, Toscano would verify that it belonged to him. Blackwell's name was popping up on every angle of this case, including having his fingerprint on what could be a possible murder weapon, but so far a definitive murder weapon hadn't been determined. Up to now Blackwell's explanations couldn't be refuted, but bullshit on that, thought Benke; the man knew something more.

Benke looked at his watch again and decided he'd wait for another ten minutes only. Normally, being the pest that he knew he was, he would have endured the smell and waited until the end of the day to get to Toscano, but the fact that he'd run into DIA Special Agent Forrester at the Meetinghouse Road house was making him vibrate with excitement on the one hand, while totally discouraging him on the other. Forrester didn't say much, but Benke knew that feds had a way of taking over once they got their claws into a case. He needed to find out why the DIA was sniffing around before they got too far into it. Screw them, he thought. This one belonged to him.

* * * * *

"Did you get out there?" Vice Director for Intelligence McCloskey asked as he sifted through the twenty-six unopened emails he'd received that afternoon. Those, plus his eleven voice mails, plus the eight pink message slips from his admin made keeping up on his correspondence a full time job in itself. His phone was on speaker.

"Yeah. I got there right after lunch." Forrester was in his own office and was going through his own stack of correspondence, most of which was flagged as extremely important. He ignored most of it.

"So you talked to this Nazarov guy."

"Not hardly."

"Because...?"

"Because he's dead... I think."

Hattie stopped clicking his keyboard and leaned back in his chair. "That's interesting. What do you mean, _I think?"_

Rather than answer the question, Forrester said, "You know Hattie, you have a way of getting me into things I'd rather not get into. Why do I talk to you?"

"I'm just trying to make your job interesting, Dave. Now what about _I think?"_

"Like I said, I found the place on Meetinghouse Road all right and I notice right away that there's a car in the driveway. I figured maybe this Nazarov guy was home but I catch the fact that the car had Montgomery County plates on it."

"And?"

"And I find a Montgomery County Detective Benke inside that makes me think I'd just walked into an episode of _Columbo."_

Anticipating, Hattie said, "And he told you Nazarov was dead?"

"He said somebody was dead, but there was no ID on the victim and they were having a hard time confirming that it was Nazarov."

"But this cop gave you a name," Hattie countered. "Where did he get that from?"

"Mail, magazine labels, he wouldn't tell me much more than that. The guy was sharp, Hattie; made me out as a fed ten seconds after I opened my mouth."

"So he knows you were DIA."

"Like I said, he made me almost immediately and asked me what I was doing trampling all over his crime scene. I had to show him something."

"Uh-huh. Did you guys talk about Blackwell?"

"I didn't bring it up and neither did he."

"Then what did you tell him you were doing there?"

"I didn't," said Forrester. "I told him we were investigating a matter of national security and I kind of left it at that. Looking back on it, I think that was a mistake."

"No shit, Dave. If he's like most cops, he's not going to hand over his case based on that. It's just going to make him dig harder. Did you ask him about UIF Enterprises?"

"He asked me, actually. Came right out with it. Said the four cars in the garage were all registered to a company named UIF Enterprises but that he couldn't find a record for any such company in Maryland."

"So what did you tell him?"

"Again, I didn't tell him anything," Forrester replied. "I just stood there looking stupid and told him I'd look into it and let him know if I got anything. I'd already been through the house by the time we were having this conversation, and I didn't come across anything with regards to the blueprints so I could only press so hard without having a search warrant."

"Did he ask you about that?"

"No, but I could tell he was thinking it." Suddenly, Forrester paused and said abruptly, "Hattie, hold on a second. My direct line is ringing and it might be the wife." He answered the call and was back with Hattie a moment later. "Uh, you won't believe who's on the other line."

"I'm guessing it isn't the wife."

"It's Benke, and he wants to see me right away. I've got him on hold."

"The guy doesn't waste any time," said Hattie. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Well, if that call wasn't the wife, I think I'm free."

"Good. See if Benke can meet us at Clyde's in Tysons Corner."

* * * * *

Tiny was doing his best. "Jake wants you to come with me," he said.

"I don't care what he wants," Lisa bellowed. "Where is he?" When Tiny didn't answer she shot a look at Scotty and said, "Where the hell have you been all afternoon? I've been scared shitless."

Scotty eyes got real big right then as he clearly wasn't used to his mother using that kind of language.

"Answer me!" Lisa shouted, blasting into him.

"Lisa, please," Tiny begged. "I think we have to give Jake some space right now. He's trying to save your daughter's life."

"And you!" Lisa taunted. "You let him go off like some damned comic book superhero? This isn't the movies, Tiny. What the hell are you thinking?"

Tiny held his hands up like a shield. "Lisa, please. It isn't my place to tell Jake what to do or not to do. I'm looking out for the both of you. You have to believe me."

"And how the hell are you doing that?" Lisa shouted. "By letting him go off so he can get himself killed?" The tears poured forth and she collapsed into a chair. "I'm going to lose both of them," she cried, looking up with venomous eyes. "That's what you're doing, you know. You're killing my family."

Scotty came over and put his arms around her. "Mom, please. Dad is not going to die, and you can't blame Tiny for what he's doing."

"What _is_ he doing?" she shot back. "Why won't either of you tell me?"

"I'm not entirely sure what he's planning," said Tiny, "but I do know he's taking Nazarov back to the house on Meetinghouse Road."

"Why does he need to go back there?" Lisa asked.

"He hasn't told me directly but I'm pretty sure he's trying to get the original blueprints back in his possession. I think Nazarov knows where they are."

"Why?" Lisa asked again.

"Those blueprints are Rachel's insurance policy, Lisa, and her ransom. He needs to find them so he can trade them—the blueprints for her. He needed to get to a place where he knows no one would find him."

"So that's where he is now," Lisa surmised as she wiped her eyes. "And where exactly is that?"

Tiny shrugged. "Some house in Potomac, Lisa. That's all I know."

"A house in Potomac." She dropped a stare on Scotty. "Do you know anything about this?"

Scotty swallowed hard. "All Dad said was that a friend of his lived there."

What little color Lisa had drained away. "That skank," she said bitterly. "I can't believe he would go to her at a time like this."

"Mom, what are you talking about?" said Scotty.

Getting up and stomping past him, Lisa said, "Where's that pistol I gave you?"

"It's in my room with the deer rifle. Jesus, Mom, what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to protect my husband," Lisa shot back, and she marched up the stairway.

Scotty shot a look at Tiny. "Should she be doing this?"

"I don't think so," Tiny replied as he shook his head. "I think this is the last thing your father needs right now."

Lisa pounded down the stairs a moment later and slung her handbag over her shoulder. "Where in Potomac does this tramp live?"

"Lisa, please," said Tiny. "Whatever you're planning, this isn't the right time for it. Jake sent me here to protect you and Scotty and I can't do that unless—"

"I don't need your protection," she shot back. "Now tell me where this house is located or I'll find out on my own." With that, she pulled her car keys from her handbag and stood there seething with contempt. "You can't stop me, Tiny." She fired a look at Scotty. "Neither one of you can."

Tiny pulled his keys and said, "C'mon, get into the Explorer and I'll take you there. At least this way I'll know where you are." Lisa didn't move and he added, "Take it or leave it, Lisa. You want to help Jake, this is the only way you're going to get there." He nodded at Scotty and said, "You're coming too. I'm not leaving you here alone."

Scotty took one step toward the door and turned to his mother. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

Lisa replied, "Just shut up and get in the car like Tiny said."

* * * * *

"I need to go to the bathroom," said Nazarov.

Jake was counting the pendulum swings on the antique grandfather clock in Whitney's home office. Nazarov was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands bound behind his back, the zip tie around his ankles having been cut off so that he could walk out of her living room at her insistence.

"That animal is soiling my furniture," she'd said to Jake. "If you insist on waiting here while I get the key from Sissy, at least do me the courtesy of putting him in another room unless you want to pay my cleaning bill."

That had been an hour ago and Jake was literally counting the seconds, seconds that also counted toward the deadline established by Rachel's captors.

"Why haven't they called?" he growled at Nazarov as he checked yet again to make sure Nazarov's cell phone was charged up. "They said within twenty-four hours. Maybe we should call them." He looked at the clock as the pendulum continued to swing, the never-ending tick-tock grating on him like a file on his teeth. The time was 6:05 p.m., which left about four hours until the twenty-four hours was up.

"Maybe they've decided otherwise," Nazarov said cruelly. "Maybe they're not going to call at all and you'll never see your daughter again. Or maybe they haven't finished with their plan to set you up so they can kill you when you show up to make the trade."

"Shut up," Jake spat back, knowing that Nazarov was playing him. C'mon, Whitney, get back here with that key, he thought, and he determined that if she didn't return within the next half hour he was going to take her Land Rover from the garage and go to Meetinghouse Road and take his chances with the alarm or anything else he might face in gaining entry to the house. Going there was his only option at this point, despite the fact that Nazarov was causing him to second guess himself. _"The answer to that is back at the house on Meetinghouse Road,"_ Nazarov had said when asked where the original blueprints were located. That wasn't quite the same as saying they were definitely there. Nazarov was a sly son of a bitch, for sure, but Jake knew he needed those original prints—the ones with the blood smudge on the envelope and the raised seal on the pages. Looking at Nazarov, he wondered what he'd do if Nazarov didn't cooperate. Those same blueprints were Nazarov's ticket to get his family out of Russia, and because of that Jake knew that Nazarov might never reveal their location.

In addition, Nazarov was now telling him that they could all be dead as soon as he turned those blueprints over to Rachel's captors. Three lives depended on those blueprints—Rachel's, Nazarov's, and his own, Jake knew now—and he was starting to think that handing them over might not protect any of them. He needed to plan for that, but first things first. He looked at Nazarov. The man was beat up and dirty, and his head was dangling off to one side like his neck couldn't support it. The guy had to be exhausted. Indeed, his eyes were closed as if he was about to fall asleep.

"Tell me something," Jake called to him.

Without opening his eyes Nazarov said, "Okay, go to hell."

Ignoring him, Jake asked, "What is UIF Enterprises and what does it have to do with this whole thing?"

Ignoring him in return, Nazarov said, "If I don't go to the bathroom pretty soon you're going to have a puddle on the floor and I'm sure you don't want your mistress to clean up after me."

If that wasn't the truth, nothing was. Jake grudgingly helped him up and marched him to a bathroom located in the back area of the first floor, beyond which were the patio and the swimming pool. Nazarov just stood in the hallway before entering.

"If you insist on keeping my hands tied behind my back," he said, looking down at himself, "you're going to have to pull it out and aim it for me."

"I'm not pulling anything out," said Jake. "That's disgusting."

"And I'm not going to piss all over myself," Nazarov snapped back. "That's even more disgusting." He didn't move.

They stood there eyeing each other until Jake pulled his KA-BAR and cut through the zip tie binding Nazarov's hands behind his back.

"Thank you," Nazarov said acidly. "Finally, a little courtesy."

"I'll be right here," Jake said threateningly as he held up the KA-BAR. "And don't take too long or I'll come in there and cut it off."

"Yeah, yeah," said Nazarov. "If you don't mind, I think I'll take the opportunity to fully relieve myself. Who knows when I'll have the opportunity to do so again."

"Just hurry up," said Jake. He let Nazarov slide past him into the bathroom and left the door slightly ajar so that he could see some of Nazarov's body. Standing there, he kept wondering what was taking Whitney so long and he decided to call her, remembering as soon as he pulled out his cell phone that he was using Scotty's phone and not his own. Whitney's number was in his contacts list on his own phone and he never looked at the number when he called, but just punched on the name. "Shit," he mumbled under his breath, wondering if he could remember the number. He peeked into the door opening and could see Nazarov sitting on the pot, then dialed what he thought was Whitney's number. Wrong. He tried again. Wrong again. "Shit," he said again.

"I'm trying to," Nazarov called back. "Keep your shirt on."

Jake had to chuckle at the unintended double-entendre, thinking he'd have to go back to Whitney's office and find one her business cards to get the number. "Hurry up," he called through the opening.

"I'll be out in a minute," Nazarov called back.

Jake exhaled impatiently, thinking he'd have to find something to bind Nazarov's hands and feet again. Duct tape, maybe. Surely Whitney had a role of it lying around somewhere. He started thinking of where that might be when he heard the sound of a car door slamming. Finally, he thought, Whitney was back, and he pulled the door more toward the closed position, figuring that seeing Nazarov on her toilet was something she didn't need to experience. Instead of hearing Whitney come in, however, he heard someone pounding furiously on the front door.

"Jake! Jake are you in there? Open up!"

That sounded like Lisa.

"Jake! It's Lisa. Open this door!"

What the hell was she doing here? And why was she pounding on that door like she wanted to break it down. Maybe she'd heard from the kidnappers, thought Jake.

"Hold on!" he called out, and he took another look back through opening, seeing Nazarov moving and figuring that he was finishing up.

"Jake, are you in there?"

"Be right there!" Jake called out, and he dashed up the hall. "Hold on!" he called as she continued to pound. He turned the deadbolt and opened the door quickly. Lisa blasted right past him, pulling Scotty along with her and leaving Tiny standing in the doorway with a pained look on his face.

"Sorry Army. I had no choice," Tiny said sorrowfully.

"Tiny, not now," said Jake, and he turned back toward Lisa who was looking at him with an expression he hadn't seen before. "Are you all right?" he asked. "What are you doing here?" His gaze shifted. "Son?" Scotty just did a palms up and Jake said, "You know what, just give me a minute," and he rushed back down the hallway. The bathroom door was closed now. He grabbed the doorknob. It was locked. A feeling of anxiety moved through him. Jake put his shoulder into the door, splintering the doorjamb and sending the door flying into the wall behind it. The next things he saw were the filmy bathroom curtains flapping back at him, and the open window that looked out onto the back patio. He ran back through the house and out the front door, than ran around to the back patio area, looking in every direction. Nazarov was gone.

Chapter 15... Meeting In Potomac

Monday, April 28th, 6:10 p.m. The last known address for Manuela Diaz Ortega was in an older part of Gaithersburg, Maryland. The building was one of five in the complex, arranged around a central courtyard that had seen better days. Standing in the security entrance where the thick glass entrance door didn't close all the way, Benke scanned the mailboxes there but didn't see the name Ortega on any of them, or on any of the intercom buttons. He got the eye from a couple of dusty dudes coming home from another day on the job, and he heard them chuckle after they passed. One of them said, "Puerco," which Benke knew was a rather insulting Mexican term for cops; Ortega was from Nicaragua according to her citizenship papers. When he asked a couple young ladies coming out of the building if they knew of Ortega, one of them said, "She no live here no more," and she pointed across the street to another bastion of the hard-working underclass of America. "Allá," the woman said: Over there, and they scurried off as if they were about to be deported.

As luck would have it, he located Ms. Ortega. She worked for a company called Handy Maids that sent her and a team member or two, depending on the size of the job, scurrying all over Montgomery County in a little purple car. She was proud that she'd become an American citizen and that she had a driver's license, and she was happy that she and her husband had the opportunity to raise their two young children in America. Ms. Ortega said she remembered the house on Meetinghouse Road. She'd been there three times over the last couple of months, remembering that the last time is was particularly dirty due the fact that there was construction work being done inside the house and dust and dirt had accumulated all over the place. When asked if she recognized the man in the photo on Benke's cell phone, she gasped and said, "Ay, dios mio."

"Do you recognize him?" Benke asked. "Is this the man that hired you?"

"I don't know," said Ortega. "These rich people they call in to the company and pay by credit card over the phone. Many times we go and we not see nobody except to let us in. Sometimes they just leave a key for us and we see nobody all day. Other time the people they watch us every move because they think we steal something."

"So you don't know if this is Mister Nazarov?" Benke pressed.

Ortega handed the phone back to Benke. "Sorry, I no recognize him."

"Do you see things inside these houses?" Benke asked, winking at her.

Ortega smiled. "What kind of things?" she asked, a little demure smile coming back at Benke. "You mean like drugs? Well, yes, sometimes. Sometimes we see marijuana, but I no touch that or clean things like that when I sees them. You looking for drugs in this house?"

"No," said Benke. "But this man was killed inside that house and we're asking a lot of questions." He smiled.

"We no see drugs," said Ortega, "but we don't go inside every room, just the rooms that were no locked up."

Benke stopped smiling. "There were rooms that were locked up? Which rooms were those?" he asked as he tried to recall his own search of the house. He didn't recall coming across any rooms that were locked or inaccessible in any way.

"Not rooms, actually," said Ortega, "but if you move the big Persian rug in the dining room you will see that there is a... como se dice?... trap door there that go someplace, yes? I think they call them safety rooms... something like that. We seen these before in these big mansions but we no go in them."

Benke felt his nerve endings starting to vibrate. A safe room served a variety of purposes, the main one being to protect occupants in the event of a home invasion or some impending disaster like a tornado. But it could also be used to secure things much the same way one would use a safe. Maybe the answer to why the poor slob in the photo was beaten to death was in this safe room that Ms. Ortega had just described. Benke checked the time and thanked Ms. Ortega for her cooperation, and dashed back to his car. First, he called his wife to tell her that he'd be home later than normal and to leave a plate for him in the microwave.

"It's after six already," his wife said. "I already figured you'd be late."

"I just need to check something out," said Benke. "I won't be long, I promise." Depending on what I find in that safe room, he thought but didn't say to her. The next thing he did was to check the traffic on his phone app to see if he should go down I-270 and take Falls Road into Potomac, or go the back way via Travilah Road. Like any other place in the D.C. metro area, rush hour traffic into Potomac could be a killer.

* * * * *

Hattie stood at the bar knocking back a tonic water with lime. As usual he attracted a lot of attention which is why he rarely went into a non-military environment wearing his service uniform. That, and the single star of a brigadier general on his collar always seemed like a magnet for some wingnut who'd had one too many to strike up a conversation about how he would run things if he was still in the military. Usually Hattie would end it with a thank you for your service and walk away if he could, but sometimes he just had to sit there and take it. Luckily Forrester showed up in time for him to avoid the experience this time around.

"I'll have what he's having," Forrester said to the attractive bartender as he squeezed his way in next to Hattie. "Sorry I'm late," he said, "but getting here from Anacostia during rush hour is no picnic. Is Benke here yet?"

"I don't think so," said Hattie. "I've been standing here for a while and no one has come up to me. He did say he'd meet with us, didn't he?"

Forrester looked at his watch and said, "He did, but maybe the traffic got him like it got me." His drink came and he took a healthy swallow. "There's no vodka in this," he said.

Hattie just smiled and lifted his glass. Ten minutes later he said, "I have a feeling we're being stood up. Do you have his number?"

Forrester fished a card out of his shirt pocket and said, "I do." Evidently Benke answered on the first ring as Forrester put a finger in his ear and said, "Uh-huh... uh-huh... right, got it." He put his phone away and said, "He's sorry but he's not going to be able to make it, thinks he might have something on the case."

Hattie said, "That would be the murder case, right? He doesn't know anything about what we're interested in, does he?"

"Like I told you before, Hattie, all he knows is what I told him, which was basically squat."

"So when can we meet with him? Can we line up another meeting?"

"We can, and it's now," said Forrester as he took a gulp of his drink and plunked his glass down on the bar. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"Back to Meetinghouse Road. He said we can talk there if we can still make it. I told him we'd be there in half an hour."

Hattie motioned to the bartender and said, "Check please."

* * * * *

Traffic on Meetinghouse Road was slow but Benke pulled into the circular driveway with time to spare. The DIA guy was coming from McLean which meant that he had to cross the American Legion Bridge. That could take forever, and Benke debated whether he should go inside or wait for him in the driveway. The sun was behind the house now and just beginning its descent to the horizon so that the front was in full shadow. The tall pines hovering over property made the shadows even darker and more portentous and Benke took his time getting out of the car. He examined the facade and the nearby area looking for nothing in particular, but it was a habit he'd developed over sixteen years and he'd been surprised more than a few times by what popped out at him. The crime scene tape still crisscrossed the front door, and from where he stood it looked like it hadn't been disturbed. The three columns of the portico stood like sentries guarding the entrance. The lawn looked like it could use a trim. He noticed that the mailbox at the end of the driveway looked quite full and he thought maybe it would be a good idea to check it out. One never knew what it might reveal.

Pulling an armful of mail from the box, he brought it back to his car and plopped it on the trunk lid and began going through it. Most of it was junk addressed to homeowner or occupant, but a few pieces including some envelopes that looked like bills were addressed with a name: Ruslan P. Nazarov. That didn't help him in terms of identifying the victim or the perpetrator, but it did cause him to think he'd been barking up the wrong tree for the last few days. He'd been so focused on Blackwell as the person of interest in the case that he gave little thought to where Nazarov might be. Where the hell was he, or more accurately, where was the guy who was using that name as an alias? Whoever he was, a murder had been committed at his residence and he was nowhere to be seen. Coincidence? No such thing, Benke figured.

He got back into the car and called Toscano's office, hoping he was still there. He'd asked Toscano—asked in a way that was a lot more of an order than it was a request even though Toscano didn't work for him—to get an ID on the blood from the end of Blackwell's driveway. "I'm glad I caught you," Benke said when Toscano answered.

Tersely, Toscano said, "Well, when you asked me, 'When the fuck am I going to get the results on that blood sample?' I figured it was pretty important to you. You don't usually talk like that, Joe."

"Did I really say that?"

"Oh, you said that, all right, and I assume you're calling to get the fucking results—for which I stayed late just to get them for you."

Benke's felt his heart beat a little bit faster. "Am I going to be happy?"

"I'm not sure, but I think it's going to put a whole new spin on your case."

Benke's heartbeat went up another notch. "Tell me already."

"Well, I got a DNA profile on the sample you gave me, no problem, but when I ran it through CODIS, I got nothing, which means that whoever left that sample—"

"It was a puddle, Mike, not a little sample. Whoever that blood came from, he or she had to have had a pretty significant injury."

"Okay," said Toscano. "But cool your jets for a second. I started to say that the fact that the profile wasn't in CODIS means that the person wasn't involved in any criminal activity in this country unless it was a long time ago."

"Geez, Mike. I know that. And?"

"And... I checked the Interpol database—and I got a cold hit."

"Now we're cookin'," said Benke. "What else can you tell me?"

"Not much right now. All the DNA profiles submitted to Interpol are anonymous."

"What the hell do you mean, anonymous? Those profiles belong to someone with a name, don't they?"

"They do, but the Interpol database is international, and the profiles are submitted by member countries that retain ownership of the profile data and control its access in accordance with the laws of their country. The profiles in the database are not linked to individuals. In order to get that information, you would have to contact the jurisdiction that submitted the profile and speak to someone there about who it belonged to."

"Even if it's a match in a crime investigation?"

"As it stands now with Interpol's regulations, yes."

Benke said, "Crap. But we can still get the information, right? Let's make a phone call."

"We can..." said Toscano, "... in about five hours. It's about four-thirty in the morning there."

Ding! "Where's there?" Benke questioned.

Toscano said, "Russia."

For Benke, it was like a cold slap. "Russia," he repeated. "That was the member country that submitted the profile?"

"Right."

"That means that the person who left that puddle of blood on Blackwell's driveway was probably Russian as well, and I'll bet I wouldn't be far wrong to think that Blackwell had something to do with that puddle being there."

"Are you talking to me, or just thinking out loud?" Toscano asked.

"No, right. I do that sometimes."

"Yeah, I know. Anything else I can do for you right now? If not, I'd like to go home."

"No, Mike. You've been a big help. I'll be in touch soon. Maybe we can make that phone call together."

"You know where I am, Joe."

Toscano clicked off and Benke sat there thinking. It was starting to come together: the name Nazarov, the coffee-table books on Uzbekistan—which was formerly under Russian rule, wasn't it?—the sudden interest in the case from the Defense Intelligence Agency—and now this. Benke remembered how that DIA Special Agent Forrester wouldn't say diddly about why he was poking around the house that was right in front of him now, but said only that he was investigating "a matter of national security." Huh, thought Benke, there was definitely more to this case than the obvious dead body, and he needed to find out what that was before he graciously just handed it off. Even worse would be if he became part of a cooperative investigation, which with the feds meant that he'd spend a lot of time looking for something to do as soon as they juiced him for every drop of information he had. Yeah, well, he doubted seriously that Forrester knew what Ms. Ortega had told him an hour ago about the existence of a safe room. Some poor slob had been beaten to death in a way that suggested torture, torture for information, Benke now considered, and he instinctively started wrapping up all of the disparate elements and tidbits of information that had come to him into a neat little package. There was something in that house that said poor slob died for, or died to protect, or died because of. Sure, he could have died because he refused to give in to the torture, but maybe he just didn't know the answers to any of the who, what, where, why, when, and how questions that accompanied his terrible ordeal. Now, thought Benke, he had something that Forrester was looking for.

He looked at the clock on his dashboard and noted that it was significantly past the appointed meeting time. He scooped up the pile of mail and headed toward the front door, wondering who was taking care of the house and the bills while whoever was using the name Nazarov was absent. The question was: was he absent by choice, or by force? Benke didn't get a chance to debate the question any further when a black Ford sedan pulled into the driveway. He recognized Forrester as he got out of the car, but had no clue as to the second occupant. He didn't expect the uniform, and he certainly didn't expect to be staring at the single star of a U.S. Marine Brigadier General that was displayed on the man's collar and on his shoulder.

"We meet again," said Forrester as he politely extended his right hand.

Benke shook the hand but his eyes were on Hattie. Like Forrester, the man was tall, but thinner, and his features were creased and looked as if they'd been sculpted with a chisel. His eyes were dark and unmoving, deep enough that Benke thought he could have been looking down a well. Despite the uniform, Benke knew immediately that the man was a spook or a handler of some sort, quite high up in the food chain obviously, but an operative nonetheless. That explained the association with Forrester. He let go of Forrester's hand and said nothing, but his eyes were doing the asking, which was: Who the hell is this guy?

Forrester got the hint. "This is Brigadier General Hastings McCloskey, Vice Director for Intelligence for the Joint Chiefs of Staff."

"Joint Chiefs... as in at the Pentagon?" Benke asked, not surprised that the word _intelligence_ was part of the man's title. He shook the man's hand, and it was dry and cold.

"You can call me Hattie."

"Uh, yeah. And you can call me Detective Benke. You guys wanna tell me what this is all about?"

Forrester started to say something but Hattie put a hand on his arm, stopping him. "We'd like to know a few things about this case," he said directly.

"Figured that. Why?"

The two men locked eyes and Forrester just took a step back and said, "O.. o... o... kay then."

Hattie's lips stretched into something close to a smile. "I think we both have certain information that would help the other out. I'm not here to step on your case."

"Good," said Benke., "but do you mind if I ask you a question first?"

"Not at all."

"Special Agent Forrester just said you were Vice Director for Intelligence for the Joint Chiefs."

"That's right."

"So that's like, what... being vice director for the CIA?"

"Not quite. My realm is strictly military. I'm part of the Joint Chiefs' staff and I head up the intelligence department. The Joint Chiefs use the information I give them to advise the President, the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Council, and other government agencies and officials."

"About what?"

"Military matters. There are eight directorates that work for and support the Joint Chiefs where all military planning, intelligence, manpower, and logistics functions are translated into action."

_Translated into action._ Benke knew what that meant. The guy might as well have said he gives advice on when to go out and kill people, and more specifically in his case, who to kill. "Does he work for you?" Benke asked, indicating Forrester.

"Not directly, but you can imagine that as the head of the intelligence directorate for the Joint Chiefs that I have a close working relationship with the Defense Intelligence Agency."

"Which is the military CIA," said Benke.

Hattie smiled again. "Well, if you want to go there, yes, I guess so."

"Uh-huh. So why is the man who advises the Joint Chiefs and in turn the President, the Secretary of Defense, and other first string government officials poking around in a local murder case? Are you telling me that this murder has to do with a threat to our national defense?"

Hattie looked at Forrester, who nodded and said, "You might as well bring him in on it."

"What's _it?"_ Benke questioned.

Not answering him, Hattie asked, "What can you tell me about this murder?"

Benke hesitated. He didn't like outsiders horning in on his cases, but unlike other times when that had happened to him, this guy didn't come in with his ass on his shoulders and all demanding and shit. You can get more flies with sugar than you can with vinegar, people said, and there were some things he wanted to know as well, primarily what _it_ was. Okay, maybe he'd dish out a little sugar of his own to get what he wanted. "The victim was tortured," said Benke. "He had broken bones all over his body and it was done methodically. Whoever did it to him was after something, but they went too far."

"You mean they killed him," Hattie concluded.

"It's hard to get information from a dead man."

"Do you think it was intentional—killing him, I mean. Clearly the beating was."

"Hard to say," Benke replied. "Again, it's hard to get information from a dead man—why do it? I'm guessing they turned up the heat and got more aggressive as the session went on until, oops, he's dead. It looked like one huge blow did it for the guy, crushed his chest and drove his ribs into his heart."

Hattie said, "Ouch. Doesn't sound like something a man could do with just his hands. Do you have a murder weapon?"

"There are a couple of items that could have been used, but to answer your question, no, we have no clearly defined murder weapon."

"So whatever it was that he was protecting, you don't think Nazarov gave it up," Hattie concluded.

"I never said the victim was Nazarov," Benke countered, "but I don't think so. A guy either gives it up after the first broken bone, or not at all. No one would go through that just to give it up at the end."

"Do you have any idea what the killers wanted, or what they were looking for?"

"No, but clearly you do." Benke just stood there expectantly.

Hattie took off his hat and wiped some perspiration off the inside band. "A friend of my dad named Tiny Rivera came to me some time back and said he had something to show me. He and my dad served together in Vietnam flying Huey's in and out of combat zones so I figured I'd be polite, you know, out of respect for both of them, and give Tiny a few minutes and see what was on his mind. Well, it had nothing to do with my dad, or Vietnam, or anything like that."

Hattie stopped there and Benke said, "Interesting story so far. So?"

Hattie glanced at Forrester and jagged his head back toward their car. Forrester was back a moment later with a file folder. Hattie extracted a few pages and spread them on the trunk lid of Benke's car.

Benke took out some reading glasses and scrutinized a couple of pages. "Sorry," he said. "I'm no engineer. What am I looking at?"

"These are blown up photos of some schematic drawings—blueprints," said Hattie.

"Yeah, I can see that much. Of what?"

"Of a W54 miniature nuclear bomb. It's one of ours."

It took Benke exactly three seconds to put it together. He looked at Hattie over his glasses and said, "Whoever killed our victim, this is what they were after, isn't it?"

Hattie put his hat on the trunk lid. "Yes, we think so."

"You said this is one of ours. Did we make this? Can this thing do damage?" Hattie spent the next ten minutes describing exactly what kind of damage _this thing_ could do and what a group of fanatics might do with it. It didn't take Benke long to understand the clear and present danger in the situation, especially if multiple weapons could be built. "So how did your friend Tiny get hold of these?" Benke went on.

"When he showed up he had someone else with him who found the originals of what you're looking at, there, inside that house. It was Tiny's idea to show them to me."

"These are photos. Where are the originals?"

"Tiny's friend said he put them back where he found them."

"Found them... how? Did he live here?"

"He stumbled across them is a better way of putting it, and, no, he didn't live here. He was doing some construction work inside the house and came across the blueprints during the course of his work. He realized what they were and he said people have been after him ever since."

Another brick went into place for Benke. He nodded knowingly and said, "His name wouldn't be Blackwell would it?"

"You're way ahead of me, Detective."

"What do you mean when you say people have been _after him?_ After him how?"

"He said he was under surveillance, but I think it's escalated well beyond that. I found out that his daughter was kidnapped and Tiny told me it had something to do with the blueprints."

"And what about him? You said Tiny is a friend of yours, but he's also a friend to Blackwell. Do you think he's protecting Blackwell?"

Hattie considered the question. "Protecting him from what?"

"From a first degree murder charge," said Benke. "According to the evidence we've collected so far, it wouldn't be a stretch to think that Blackwell offed the guy who was killed."

"I'm not sure protecting is the right word," said Hattie. "Blackwell was an Army Ranger, one of the best from what I know, and he's not the type who is going to sit still if someone kidnapped his daughter over these blueprints. Tiny said he's gone off the grid to go after the people who took her. I wouldn't be surprised if he's helping Blackwell out in some way."

"Now I get it," said Benke.

Seeing the look on Benke's face, Hattie asked, "Get what?"

"I talked to Blackwell this morning and I had the distinct feeling he was hiding something or knew a lot more than what he was telling me."

"About what?" Hattie asked as he glanced at Forrester.

"About anything. His wife was a nervous Nellie, but he was like black ice: slippery and dangerous. Have either of you talked to him about any of this since he brought you these photos?"

"Like I just said, we thought he'd gone off the grid. We were hoping you might be able to fill us in on a couple of things."

"Such as?"

"Like did the Blackwells report that their daughter was missing or that she'd been kidnapped?"

"I'd have no way of knowing that unless I checked with the special victims unit. There would be no reason for that information to come my way."

Forrester jumped in. "If the Blackwells' daughter was kidnapped and you saw them this morning, don't you think it would be normal that they would ask you about it?"

Benke nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I'm in homicide and not missing persons, but yeah, I would think that would be normal for them to say something."

"But it doesn't sound like they said a word about it," Forrester presumed. "Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

Standing there in the driveway, Benke looked absently into the distance. "Very odd," he said. "It's like they don't want the police involved." He looked back at Hattie. "You said he was going after the people who took his daughter."

"According to Tiny, yeah."

Still putting it together, Benke went on, "If he doesn't want the police involved, then he's probably communicating with them directly. Maybe he's been warned not to get the authorities involved if he ever wants to see her again."

Hattie said, "Do you think he's looking to make a trade, the blueprints for the girl?"

Forrester said, "Or maybe he's planning on killing the people that took her if it comes to that. That's all the more reason to not get the authorities involved."

Seeing where Hattie and Forrester were going, Benke said, "If we find Blackwell, we find the kidnappers, and if we find the kidnappers we find the people who want to make this bomb."

"We just need to find them before they get those blueprints," said Hattie.

"Or before Blackwell gets to them," said Forrester. "We didn't mention the fact that he and his daughter could end up dead as well."

Hattie pointed to the house and added, "There's one more element to all this. Where do you think this guy Nazarov went to? It's like he disappeared."

"Or never existed," said Benke. "Maybe the guy's a spook."

Hattie looked at Forrester and his facial expression changed immediately. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

Benke knew he'd just struck a nerve. "Listen, we gotta trust each other on this, right? Why don't you guys take a few minutes before we go inside and tell me what you don't want to tell me about this case?"

* * * * *

Whitney finally got back and pulled into her driveway and parked behind the ugly old Ford Explorer. "Now what?" she said to herself angrily, thinking the thing looked like it had chickenpox. She could feel her boobs quivering as she stomped toward her front door, somehow not surprised to see four sets of eyes glued to her as soon as she stepped inside. Doing a quick visual sweep, she said, "This is getting out of hand, Jake. Who are all these people?"

"This is my family," he said, not feeling the need to explain about Tiny.

Whitney tempered her scowl a bit and connected with each face. "That your hunk of junk in my driveway?" she asked Tiny, catching him in mid-stare.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "Do you want me to move it?"

Not answering, she zeroed in on Jake again. "I think I'm going to regret this."

"I'm sorry," he said, looking totally defeated. "I thought you might be able to help us. We'll get out of your way now."

Whitney caught Lisa looking at her. Unsure of whether it was a look of resentment or supplication, she looked away quickly. "What about your daughter?"

"We'll find another way." Jake put his arms around Lisa and Scotty and stepped toward the front door.

"Wait... stop," Whitney implored as she studied Lisa again. "I'm the one who should apologize...." she began, but she didn't finish the sentence as it dawned on her that someone was missing. "Where's Nazarov?"

"He's gone," Jake shot back quickly. "He got away when I wasn't paying attention."

Whitney immediately understood what that meant. Agitated in another way now, her lips tightened into a thin line. "But you had him tied up. How could he get away like that?"

"It's my fault," Lisa said sharply. "I got in the way and now he's gone." She sobbed and wiped her eyes, adding to the irritation there and making her face even more skeletal-looking. "I might never see my daughter again."

Drawn to her in that way that only women understand, Whitney pulled her into her arms and Lisa's tears soaked into her fuzzy sweater. "Yes you will," she said. "Jakey will get her back." Lisa pulled away and Whitney got her meaning. "It's not what you think," Whitney said. "He's a good man and he loves you very much. He would never do anything to hurt you and he would never cheat on you." For some reason she connected with Scotty right then and noted that he was bouncing confused looks between his parents. "He wouldn't do anything to hurt any of you in a million years," Whitney said again, staring right at him. She held Lisa at arm's length. "Why did you come here?"

Lisa replied, "I don't know, I was angry, and confused, I wanted to help; I just couldn't sit around wondering if I would ever see my husband and my daughter again."

Looking at Jake, Whitney asked, "You still need to find those blueprints, don't you? Isn't there a way she can help with that?"

Jake was about to answer when a ring tone sounded. It took him a second to realize it was coming from his jacket pocket and that it was Nazarov's phone, the phone that the kidnappers said they'd call to set up the trade. His face went tight with tension. "It's them," he announced, and the room went silent in a millisecond.

Jake touched the screen and said, "This is Blackwell." His eyes were on Lisa's, wide and unblinking. He listened for a moment and said, "I want to talk to my daughter. You get nothing until that happens." He listened some more and said, "I'm with my wife and I'm going to put you on speaker... Yeah, well, that's just a chance you'll have to take." He held the phone in front of him and held a finger to his lips as everyone instinctively closed in on him. A moment later a voice came through.

"Dad, is that you? Is Mom with you?"

Lisa was uncontainable. "Rachel! Are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

"No, I'm all right, but I'm scared, Mom, and I want to come home. They keep making threats if Dad doesn't give them what they want." Her voice was shaky, and Lisa fired a glare at Jake that could have drawn blood.

Jake said, "You'll be home soon, sweetheart," but the kidnapper's voice replaced Rachel's.

"No more talking," he declared. "She said she's safe, but she won't be for long if we don't get those plans. Do you have them?"

The voice was accented and Jake tried to place it. Lying through his teeth, he said, "I have them. When can we make the trade?"

"I need to be sure you're not lying. Let me talk to Nazarov."

Caught in his deception, the color drained from Jake's face. Seeing it, Whitney pulled a key from her pocket, indicating that she was successful in obtaining it from Sissy Mayhugh. Jake nodded nervously and said indignantly into the phone, "You don't need to talk to Nazarov. The drawings are in my possession, not his."

"I talk to Nazarov or there is no trade," the voice shot back.

"Let me rephrase, asshole," Jake said even more indignantly. "You can't talk to Nazarov."

"Why not?"

"Because he's dead, that's why not. I have the drawings and if you want them back you'll have to deal with me. If we don't do the trade, you're a dead man just like Nazarov."

"You're hardly in a position to dictate terms," the kidnapper warned.

"I am if you want those blueprints," Jake responded.

"I still need to be sure," the voice said. "You wanted to verify that we still had your daughter; I need to verify that you have those plans."

"How?" Jake questioned.

"The plans have a seal on them. I want you to read me what's inside that seal."

The look of panic froze on Jake's face. "What kind of seal?" he asked, stalling.

"A raised, stamped seal indicating authenticity. Are you playing games with me, Mister Blackwell? Because if you are—"

"I'm not," Jake said quickly. His jaw was clenched so tight that his ears were ringing. "Hold on a minute." He looked from face to face but each one was staring back with equal anxiety. Suddenly, Lisa caught his eye. She'd pulled her cell phone from her handbag and pointed to it.

"In your cell phone," she whispered coarsely. "Didn't you take pictures of those plans with your phone?"

"Scotty has it," he croaked back.

Every eye in the room swung back to Scotty. If he understood that his sister's life depended on what he did next, he certainly didn't show it. Looking as calm as a fat cat, he pulled Jake's cell phone from his back pocket and gave it to Jake who quickly began tapping the screen and scrolling through images until he found the photos he'd taken almost two weeks earlier.

"I'm waiting," the kidnapper called from the phone.

"I'm here," Jake said quickly as he pulled up the first photo. Straining to see detail, he tried to focus on anything that looked like a seal, which was easier said than done. Each blueprint sheet was probably two feet by three feet in size and now reduced to a tiny cell phone screen. He tapped the screen and expanded the image with his fingers, fumbling with the phone as if his fingers were frozen. It was Scotty who came over and looked over his shoulder. He snapped his fingers and whispered, "Dad, give me the phone."

"Mister Blackwell!" the kidnapper bellowed from Nazarov's phone. "I'm running out of patience."

"Do you want these plans or not?" Jake bellowed in return. He turned and gazed pleadingly at Scotty who was focused on the screen as if he had x-ray vision.

A moment later, he handed the phone back to Jake and said, "There!" He nodded, telling Jake to get back to the kidnapper.

"I have the seal," Jake said nervously.

"Tell me what it says inside of it," the kidnapper demanded.

Jake hesitated a second too long and Scotty snatched the phone from his hand. Concentrating, the screen an inch from his nose, Scotty whispered, "It says UIF Enterprises, June 8, 2016, and there is a scrawl that looks like someone's signature that I can't make out." His eyes like ball bearings, he said, "That's what it says, Dad."

With his eyes locked on Scotty's, Jake repeated what Scotty had said. The group held its collective breath waiting for the kidnapper to respond.

After what seemed like an eternity, the kidnapper said, "Tonight, midnight. I'll text the location to this number. Come alone. I don't need to repeat the consequences if you don't."

Whitney came over and handed Jake the key and a slip of paper. "I guess you need to get to Meetinghouse Road before Nazarov does," she said.

Chapter 16... Reconnaissance Mission

Monday, April 28th, 7:28 p.m. Jake looked at the slip of paper Whitney had handed him and said, "What's this?"

"That's the code to disarm the alarm once you get into the house. Sissy thinks she remembers the keypad as being on the left side wall in the foyer."

Jake held up the key Whitney had also given him. "The code and this key are from the previous owners, right?"

"Probably so," said Whitney. There's a possibility that what you have there won't work."

Jake nodded. There was no sense in debating what alternatives he might have in case she was right. He noted that she was eyeing him carefully now, acting nervous and cradling herself as if she was cold. And who could blame her? She'd done nothing to get involved in this situation and her house was full of desperate people that she could easily have asked to leave out of fear that she herself could be in danger. She suddenly looked older, thought Jake, a preview of what she might become. He glanced at Lisa who hadn't stopped sniffling since her arrival. She looked worse than Whitney, her normally strong and healthy body looking gaunt and depleted, the only color emanating from the gray aura around her being the red, raw areas around her eyes and her nose. Scotty was on the other side of the room, looking nervous. Tiny was in one of Whitney's pastel chairs with his head hanging down as if he'd just lost the state championship.

"We need to move," said Jake, knowing that Nazarov was probably headed to Meetinghouse Road. He was on foot, however, and the house was several miles away. It would take him a while to get there. But at this point that didn't matter who got there first, thought Jake. If Nazarov got hold of the blueprints first and didn't hand them over, well....

Out of the blue Scotty said, "I'm hungry. Can we get something to eat?"

"I have some pizza in the fridge if anyone wants it," said Whitney.

Scotty headed toward the kitchen and said, "I like cold pizza."

Looking at the grandfather clock, it was almost seven-thirty, Jake noted. Outside, the sun was hovering on the horizon. That meant there was only about an hour of daylight left and he wondered how that would affect things. "Did Sissy ask any questions?" he asked Whitney as he prepared to head out.

"She did, and I lied to her."

"What did you say?"

"I said I was dealing with a nasty separation and the husband stole the wife's keys. I told her we needed to get in and take some papers so we could list the house."

"That's very original."

"Not really. It actually happened to me. I assured Sissy that we weren't doing anything illegal."

Except maybe kill Nazarov to get hold of those blueprints, thought Jake. "Do you think she believed you?"

"We're realtors," said Whitney. "There's not much we wouldn't do for a commission that big and she understood completely, even though she said I was crazy for getting involved with something like that." Whitney paused for a moment and added, "I also asked her about UIF Enterprises again, and how that name got onto the title papers instead of the new owner's name. She looked back into her files and discovered that the title company that was used was Superior Title and Escrow."

Whitney's tone made that sound significant and Jake paused. "So?"

"So Superior Title and Escrow was out of Silver Spring, and the two owners disappeared after having been charged with bank fraud, theft, and mortgage fraud. They walked away with millions in customers' down payment deposits and escrow funds, supposedly, plus they absconded with additional funds from their own properties by floating home equity lines of credit loans against each other and never actually paying any of them back. It wouldn't be a stretch to think that they could have falsified title information if someone happened to put a few bucks in their pockets. By the time anyone at the municipal level found out about something like that, the crooks probably figured they'd be sipping piña coladas in Aruba for the rest of their lives, and they probably are. I think the story is that they fled the country after posting a couple of million dollars' bail and no one has seen or heard from them since."

"Sounds like a perfect way to hide an identity, but it doesn't give me any insight into who might have taken Rachel." Jake took another moment despite his anxiousness to leave. "Did you say this Superior Title and Escrow was in Silver Spring?"

"Right."

"Supposedly the software company that Nazarov worked for was in Silver Spring. Do you mind if I use your computer?"

"You know where it is."

Jake pulled Lisa out of her funk and said, "Hurry. Come with me." Seconds later, Lisa was doing a search on _Superior Title and Escrow, Silver Spring, Maryland_ , with Jake and Whitney looking over her shoulder. Lots of stuff came up, the entire first page having to do with the criminal activity Whitney had just described. It wasn't until page three that Jake spotted the words _Superior Title and Escrow_ with a .uz website: www.uifusa.uz. "Look here," he said to Lisa. "Why would Superior Title and Escrow be mentioned on a website whose title contains the initials UIF, as in UIF Enterprises? It also has .uz as the website suffix. Who has websites with a .uz suffix?"

Lisa did another quick search. "Someone in Uzbekistan," she replied, suddenly seeming to have some energy about her.

"Try pulling up the website and see what comes up," Jake said urgently.

A moment later Lisa said, "It's a blog site."

"I think I know, but what exactly is a blog?" he asked.

"It's a discussion board. People post subjects and opinions and other people post responses."

"So what are they discussing?"

Lisa clicked the mouse a couple of times and said, "This blog is set to private visibility and it's password protected. From what I know, I think that means you can't get into it unless you are invited and have been given the password by the administrator."

"I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Nazarov is the administrator," Jake said. "Can a blog be used for private communication?"

"I suppose so," said Lisa. "If it's like any other blog, you post something and members access the information and post back with questions or opinions if they feel like it."

"So conceivably, a terrorist organization could communicate with its cells all over the world by posting on a private blog. Not only that," Jake went on, "it would alleviate the need to repeat communications to multiple people which is what would happen if they did it by phone or text. Instead, everyone could simply access the blog."

Whitney scowled deeply. "Oh my God, Jake. This is scaring me. I hate to say it, but I think I've gone as far as I can with this. I'm really sorry, but I think maybe it would be a good idea for you all to leave." She looked at Lisa and added, "I'm sorry, but this isn't my fight."

Lisa looked up and said, "Jake?"

"That's exactly what I'm planning to do," he said. "We need to find Nazarov and get hold of those blueprints before midnight." He gave Whitney a hug and said, "Thank you for your help." Then he kissed Lisa on the lips and said quickly, "We gotta go."

* * * * *

"Is there any pizza left?"

"Sorry, Dad. I just ate the last piece."

They were traveling west on River Road approaching the intersection where it crossed Falls Road at the center of Potomac Village. "Tiny, there's a convenience store up ahead. Pull in there if you could."

"Copy that," said Tiny.

Jake turned and took a long look at Lisa, who was in the back seat. "I'll bet your blood sugar is low. When was the last time you ate?"

"I had a piece of toast when that detective came to see us this morning."

Jake looked at his watch. "That was thirteen hours ago."

Lisa responded by asking, "When was the last time you took your anti-seizure medicine?"

"I don't remember," Jake replied. "Maybe we both need to get something into our stomachs."

Tiny said, "I got this. You two have a lot to talk about. Scotty, give me a hand, would you?"

When they were alone, Lisa asked, "What was Tiny referring to just now?"

"I think that was Tiny's way of telling us to think about the possibility that we may not get Rachel back." Even in the shadowed interior of Tiny's Explorer he could see tears instantly spill down Lisa's cheeks. Surprised that there were any left, he added, "I think you also need to prepare yourself for what else might happen."

She averted his gaze now, wiping a hand across her face and making it glisten. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"Do I really have to say it?" he asked softly.

She didn't say anything for a long moment. "I can't lose you both, Jake."

"What choice do we have?" She looked away. "Do you want me to stop? If you do, I'll stop what we're doing and call the police right now." After some moments with no answer, Jake said, "Lisa? We don't have a lot of time left and I need to know what you're thinking."

"I... I don't know what to do," she said hesitantly. "I just want my daughter back."

Jake reached back and took her hand. It was cold and trembling, or maybe it felt that way because he was nauseated and he felt himself sweating. He'd had that feeling before and he remembered it vividly from back in the day. It was always before a mission where he didn't know what he'd be facing or whether he'd come back from it or not. This felt like one of those times, he thought to himself, except now his wife was also seemingly paralyzed by it and he needed to get her out of it. "I'm going to do whatever it takes to bring Rachel back," he said to her, "but I can't do it alone. I need you to be strong, and I need you to be with me on this." He paused. "I love you, Lisa. We've always been there for each other and this could be the time that I need you the most."

She seemed surprised.

"Close your eyes," said Jake, and he waited for her to do so. "What would your life be like without Rachel? If you could do anything to get her back, would you do it... _soldier?"_

She looked at him oddly and nodded yes.

"Could you pull the trigger to accomplish this mission?"

Lisa's eyes widened now, and she stared at Jake from the back seat. "She's not a mission, Jake, it's our daughter."

"Believe in the mission, soldier... believe in yourself. Let your training guide you and have faith in your mates and your officers."

"What's happening, Jake? Where is your medicine?"

"Use your visualization, soldier, as you were trained to do. You have to think that nothing is going to prevent you from accomplishing your goal. Let it be the trigger that pushes you through to victory."

Tiny and Scotty came back and popped back into the Explorer. Tiny said, "All they had were hot dogs and those premade sandwiches, but it'll have to do. Anybody want tuna?"

"Just remember, soldier," said Jake, still talking to Lisa, "situational awareness is a key to survival and a key to victory when engaging the enemy. Mental toughness is essential."

Looking at Jake and then back at Lisa, Tiny said, "What are you two talking about?"

"We're going through our mental preparations for battle, _Sir_ ," said Jake.

Tiny stopped fooling with the sandwiches and shot an uneasy look back at Lisa.

* * * * *

Normally after a crime scene investigation is completed the scene is released back to the owners of the property, but in this case no owners were found and none had come forward which meant the property was still under police control. That proved to be advantageous for Benke in that he didn't bother with a search warrant in order to look for more evidence and confirm what Ms. Ortega had told him. That wasn't the case with Forrester and his general friend, however. "Ah, you boys don't happen to have a search warrant, do you?"

"We can get one," said Hattie. "But then you would have to wait outside until we were done with our search." He turned to Forrester. "Dave, how long do you think it would take to get a federal warrant on this place?"

"Depends on how fast we could find a judge at this hour," said Forrester. "Shouldn't be too long, a few hours at the most." Forrester looked at Benke and smiled. "Of course with a house this big it would take us a while to do a thorough search. It might even go into tomorrow."

Benke got the picture. He looked at his watch and noted that it was passing seven-thirty. He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his jacket pocket and opened the door, leaving the padlock that had been affixed to the door hanging on the hasp loop. Finding the light switch in the foyer, he clicked it and the huge chandelier above them lit up like the sun. "I suppose you guys want to take a look around. Don't touch anything, okay?"

"Where is the area where the construction work was being done?" Hattie asked. "Supposedly that's where Blackwell was working when he came across the blueprints."

"This way," said Benke, and he led the way into the family room where they could see that a dividing wall from the adjoining home office room had been removed to make the area one large room instead of two smaller ones.

Hattie looked around for a moment. "Blackwell said he was moving some furniture when he found the blueprints. Any ideas?" he said to Benke.

"It had to be this piece," Benke replied, walking over and putting his hand on the credenza. "I found some dried blood on the floor here that belonged to him." Remembering what Blackwell had told him, he reached down and ran his hand around the base of the cabinet. "Huh," he said. "Blackwell was telling the truth."

"About what?" Hattie questioned.

"Blackwell said that he punctured his finger on something sharp when he was moving this around. Evidently that's when he found those blueprints you're looking for." Getting down on one knee and looking underneath the cabinet, he said, "Looks like they'd been stapled underneath the frame here, and I guess he must have dislodged them somehow. Now it makes sense," he said.

"Hell of a place to hide something," said Forrester.

"Depends on how you look at it," Hattie responded. "Of all the places in this house, would you think to look under the cabinet instead of inside it if you were looking for something?"

Forrester shrugged and said to Benke, "What about the murder? Where did that happen?"

Benke led them to the lower level to the workout area. The dried bloodstains were still visible and had assumed a dark brown patina. "I think the guy was beaten to death while sitting in that chair over there. This barbell bar could have been the murder weapon, but we're not sure. This, or something like it was used to shatter the victim's chest."

"Like I said before, that would take an awful lot of force," said Hattie, "even for a big person. Could the killer, or killers, have used something else like a sledge hammer or a tire iron? Maybe a baseball bat?"

"I suppose so," said Benke. "Why do you ask?"

"We have reason to believe that the people who want the blueprints are from an organization called the Uzbek Islamic Front."

"Never heard of them," said Benke. "But now that you mention it, there are some travel books upstairs that made me think that Nazarov was from Uzbekistan. That is what you're talking about, isn't it, when you say Uzbek?" Hattie nodded and Benke asked, "So what is this Uzbek Islamic Front, some kind of radical group?"

Hattie hesitated. Reading him, Benke said, "I'm a professional and can keep my mouth shut if that's what you're concerned about."

Hattie smiled and said, "Of course. This Uzbek Islamic Front is a splinter group from yet another terrorist organization inside Uzbekistan that was utilized by the country's former leader to get rid of his political enemies. The guy was in power even before the country broke away from Russian rule in 1991. As a consequence of his relationship with the Russians, it's suspected that he and his cronies found a way to stockpile a significant amount of fissionable material over the years. The problem now is that the guy is dead."

"And someone wants that fissionable material," Benke guessed.

"That's right," said Hattie. "One of the main goals of this group is to overthrow the current government and install a radical Islamic government like the ones you see in the Middle East. They want those blueprints so they can build the W54 nuclear device and do only-God-knows-what with it. We think they could build multiple devices, the number of which is only bound by the amount of fissionable material they can get their hands on."

"Is it a threat to the West?" Benke asked.

Hattie replied, "I don't know for sure, but if this Uzbek Islamic Front group is anything like ISIS and other extreme radical groups, I wouldn't want to take the chance that a W54 could be detonated anywhere on our soil, especially due to the fact that in one of its iterations the device was made to be launched."

Benke suddenly looked ill. "Are you telling me this thing could be, like, fired into a place where thousands of people are gathered?"

"That's right, and most of them would die. Anyone close to the point of detonation would die immediately, and anyone within half a mile of the blast would eventually die from radiation poisoning."

"Something like that would be impossible to prevent," said Benke.

"Now you know why we're so hot-to-trot on finding those blueprints." Getting back to discussion about the murder weapon, Hattie went on and said, "The kind of torture inflicted on your victim has all the markings of the Russian mob."

Benke's eyes narrowed. "My visit with Blackwell this morning was the second time I went to question him. The first time was Saturday afternoon. He wasn't home then, but it gave me a chance to look around and I found a significant blood spill on the ground at the end of his driveway. I got word today that the DNA profile on it matched one on file with Interpol, and my forensics guy says it came from Russia." He speared Hattie and Forrester with alternating glares. "If your theory is correct, it could mean that the Russian mob is after Blackwell."

"And it wouldn't be much of a stretch to think that the Russian mob is working with this Uzbek Islamic Front group. Maybe they're the ones supplying the plutonium once the device is built." Hattie looked back at Forrester and said, "Ya' think?"

Forrester shrugged. "It's certainly possible. Those guys are scarier than shit and into everything, and kidnapping is their stock in trade. It also wouldn't be much of a stretch to think that they're the ones holding Blackwell's daughter hostage until they get those blueprints." He suddenly looked disgusted. "But there isn't going to be any exchange, is there?" he realized. "Blackwell might end up getting hold of those blueprints, but he and his daughter are both dead as soon as he shows up with them." He waited a second. "Do you think he knows that he's probably being set up?"

Hattie replied, "The man is a former Army Ranger with four tours under his belt, is proficient in special operations, and hunted terrorists for a good part of his Army career. I wouldn't be surprised if he was planning on it."

"So how does this guy Nazarov play into all of this?" Forrester asked.

"Funny you should ask," a voice said from behind them.

They all turned to see an AK-47 leveled at them. "Put your hands behind your heads and get on your knees," said Nazarov. "The first one that takes his hands off his head will be the first one to die."

* * * * *

"We are not in a position to sustain casualties," said Jake. "Our first strike will reveal our position and without reinforcements there's a chance that the target could escape. We also need to determine what sort of IMT we should use. I think it might be easier to breach the structure if we created some misdirection. WO Rivera, what do you think?"

Tiny was in a tough position. Jake's flashbacks had taken a turn for the worst. The presence of the past was evident in his here and now, a symptom of some severe PTSD disorder. The man was in a fragile state, and his mental immersion into previous traumatic experiences could become his permanent state of mind whether or not he was successful in liberating Rachel. It was also a short trip from PTSD to suicidal behaviors, one of which was going down in a blaze of glory. Ask any combat veteran and he'll tell you that there have been plenty of heroes who died that way to escape the depression and anxiety that dominated their lives.

Addressing Jake's question, Tiny said, "What sort of misdirection did you have in mind?" It was a risky response, but not playing along might send Jake off on his own. Jake looked at him with the thousand-yard stare of a man seeking emotional detachment, a man whose life was slowly being sucked out of him.

They were parked at the same side road where they'd been earlier in the day when Scotty spotted the two cars sitting in Nazarov's driveway. In the back seat of the Explorer, Scotty whispered to Lisa, "Mom, I think Dad is really out of it."

If Jake heard the comment, he didn't show it. He didn't show anything, seemingly devoid of feeling. Tiny had seen it before and knew it was a coping mechanism where soldiers buried their emotions in order to function. They couldn't think about pain, or grief, or anger—or even love. They had a job to do, and that was all that mattered.

Continuing on the question of misdirection, Jake said, "First off, we need to do some reconnaissance in order to assess the position and strength of any enemy that might be present." He turned to his "troops" and said, "You are about ready to embark on something that you've never encountered. Now, there's going to be a little fear in each of you, but we need to believe in each other, okay?"

Jesus, thought Tiny. Did he dare question what was happening? Did he want to risk Rachel's life by holding Jake back? He could never live with himself if something happened to her because of him, and he decided there was no other acceptable alternative. It was time to go all in. He looked back at Scotty and Lisa and considered the bewildered look on their faces. They needed to get with the program.

Not pulling any punches, he said, "This has to be a team effort if you ever want to see Rachel again." In that instant he took stock of that team, which consisted of a war-ravaged, PTSD-affected Army Ranger with a traumatic brain injury, an inexperienced fifteen-year-old boy, and a terrified mother who was suffering from her own emotional trauma. He, the remaining team member, was an overweight sixty-three-year-old who ran out of breath going up and down the stairs to the bathroom. Depending on what they would be facing, he had some serious concerns about their ability to complete this mission successfully. They needed to nail down their plan. "Let's establish the objectives, _Sergeant,"_ Tiny called out, and inexplicably he thought about his wife.

"The objectives are twofold," Jake went on as if he was preparing a platoon of commandos for engagement. His tone was even and measured, designed to instill confidence in his troops as if he was giving them a transfusion of bravery. Tiny watched carefully.

Jake said, "Our first objective is to find those blueprints, specifically the original prints with the embossed seal on them. Without those there will be no exchange for Rachel, and I don't need to go into detail about the acceptability of that alternative, do I?... Do I?" he demanded when there was no answer.

"No," Lisa and Scotty called out.

"No, _sir!"_ Tiny corrected.

"No, _sir!"_ they called out again.

"Now, Nazarov was vague about whether the blueprints were actually in the house or not, but either way he's had enough time to get back there to secure them for his own purposes. If he has them, we need to take them from him. If he doesn't have them, he needs to stay alive long enough for us to find out what he did with them." Jake looked at the dashboard clock. "The exchange is scheduled for midnight. We have to have those blueprints before then."

Tiny was still monitoring Lisa's and Scotty's body language. "No blueprints, no Rachel," he said, making sure they understood the importance of what Jake was saying.

"What if he's not in the house?" Scotty questioned.

"Let's hope that's not the case," Jake replied evenly. "That could mean he's already been there and taken the blueprints somewhere else in anticipation that we would come looking for them, but he knows that the kidnappers are supposed to show up at midnight to do the trade. Chances are that he's hunkered down inside. He'll want to negotiate his own deal when the time comes, but he'll be dead as soon as the kidnappers see that he has the prints. If that happens, Rachel becomes expendable, so we need to get hold of those blueprints as soon as possible. Now, if he's not in the house, we wait. He'll show up sometime before midnight, and when he does we'll have to take the blueprints from him then." Jake paused, heightening the importance of what he was about to say. "We'll take him out if we have to." He looked at each face before continuing to make sure his soldiers knew what he meant. "He's probably expecting us, and that brings us to reconnaissance." Jake looked straight at Scotty. "You're our best call on this, soldier. This time the recon has to be close in. We need to know who is inside that house, and it would be better if we knew where inside. Can you handle it?"

Scotty's first move was to look at Lisa. Tiny just sat there praying that she grasped the reality of what he'd said earlier: _no blueprints, no Rachel_. He also hoped that she realized that no one else on the face of the earth was going to get Rachel back for them tonight. The sobbing had stopped now, and rather than look at Scotty who was drilling a hole into her with his eyes, she was looking at Jake. With a lump in his throat seemingly the size of lemon, Tiny waited. Her response would determine how the rest of the mission would play out.

"Jake, honey," she called to him calmly, her voice soft, her pose placid. Three sets of eyes were on her now. "Jake, honey, have you got this? Because if you don't, I don't think I can continue."

Tiny took her meaning instantly. She wasn't talking about continuing with the mission; she was talking about continuing with life. She was at the end of her rope, and understandably so; there was a possibility that she could lose her entire family in one night. He hoped that Jake was cognizant of what she was trying to tell him.

"Fear is a paralyzing emotion," Jake said to her as if he was talking to a shell-shocked soldier. "We have to take action. That being said, we must operate as a cohesive unit." He paused and said, "Whatever happens, you can be assured that I'll be with you the whole way."

That didn't sound much like a husband talking to a wife, thought Tiny, but it looked like she summoned up whatever courage she had. She nodded and took a deep breath. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"That's my girl," said Jake, and a smile actually spread across his face. "How are we fixed for weapons?"

Tiny answered first and said, "I've still got my .357 with enough ammo for a reload."

"That's sixteen rounds," said Jake. "I've got my .45, and my M9, with an extra clip for each weapon. That means I've got forty-four rounds total."

Lisa didn't say anything, but Scotty reminded her that she'd taken her H & K P30 with her before they went to the real estate lady's place. "That's right," she said, and she reluctantly pulled it out of her handbag and handed it to Jake.

He popped the clip and said, "Fourteen and one in the chamber." He checked the safety and went to hand it back to Lisa but it hung there rock-still for some moments. He didn't move. She looked at him, but he still didn't move. "You can do this," he said. "Just keep remembering that they've got Rachel." With her lips forming a thin white line, Lisa took the weapon. "That's seventy-three rounds total," said Jake, plus I've got my KA-BAR strapped around my ankle." He looked at Tiny. "That's nowhere near enough."

"Enough for what?" Lisa snapped back.

Tiny knew exactly what Jake was thinking. "We don't have enough for any covering fire if it comes to that. It would make it tough if we're going up against any automatic weapons."

"How long would it take to get to Dickerson and back?" Jake asked.

Tiny replied, "At this time of night, half hour there, half hour back more or less."

"Thirty-seven minutes each way," said Scotty as his thumbs blazed across his phone.

Jake looked at the dashboard clock. "That would put us right close to ten o'clock."

"Probably about the right amount of time for us to complete the recon and determine our initial position," said Tiny.

Jake turned to Lisa. "Do you think you could make it there and back in that time? We need the AR-15 and the AK-47 that are in the workshop. You know which ones those are, don't you?" She nodded tentatively. "There's extra ammo in the gun safe. Bring it all." Her eyes were wide open and unmoving. "They have Rachel, Lisa. They have Rachel and we need to do everything possible to get her back."

It was Scotty who touched her softly on the shoulder. "Mom? We need to do this. If it was you being held by these bad people, we'd be doing the same thing for you."

She touched his face and brushed back the curls that were sticking out from under his baseball cap. "You're right," she said. She pulled up on the door handle and paused, then she handed her H & K nine millimeter to Scotty. "You're a man tonight, Scotty. You've been a man since this whole thing started. Be careful, okay? One side of me wants to protect you and pull you away from all this. The other side of me wants you to help save your sister. You do what you think is best."

Tiny noticed that she didn't even look at Jake and he wondered what that meant. He got out of the Explorer and said, "You know the way, right? Go back on Meetinghouse Road, take a left on Darnestown Road and stay on it all the way to Dickerson." She pulled out and he noticed that one of the taillights on the Explorer was a little dim. "I hope she makes it," he said to himself, meaning more than the trip to Dickerson.

* * * * *

"Take it easy," said Benke. The tips of the man's fingers were white with pressure and he was squeezing the AK-47 like he was trying to get juice out of it. Benke glanced at McCloskey, wondering if he noticed it too.

"Eyes forward," the guy commanded. He was skittish, the barrel of the AK-47 quivering in his hand.

Not good, thought Benke as he focused on the trigger. One inadvertent slip and the guy could pop three rounds out of the Kalashnikov before he even realized what happened. Despite the guy's warning, he swung another look at McCloskey and Forrester, noting their discomfort. They'd been kneeling with their hands behind their heads for some time now while their captor paced nervously, muttering to himself in a language that Benke didn't understand.

"Who are you?" Benke demanded.

"This must be Nazarov," Hattie answered instead. "Who else would it be?"

"Quiet!" Nazarov shouted, swinging the AK-47 toward Hattie now. "How do you know who I am? Who are you? Who are all of you?"

"You best do what he says, General," said Benke.

"General," said Nazarov, focusing on the ribbons on Hattie's chest. "You're military."

"Hey, you're sharp."

Sarcastically, Forrester said, "This guy is a real fucking genius." The AK-47 swung yet again. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" he shot at Nazarov.

Benke picked up on it immediately. They were trying to keep Nazarov off balance, demeaning him, making him angry. To what end Benke wasn't sure, but he recognized the opportunity to play good cop. "Listen, we're not burglars and we're sorry to have inconvenienced you," he said as he tossed an icy stare at the other two guys for Nazarov's benefit. "We're here to investigate the murder that took place downstairs. I already know you had nothing to do with that, so why don't you put that rifle down and we'll be on our way."

"How do you know about that?" Nazarov questioned as he moved the weapon back and forth like a lawn sprinkler.

"I'm a police detective. My name is Benke. It looks like whoever killed the man in your basement did a number on you too. Do you think maybe you can lower that rifle and give us a description?" Nazarov looked hesitant and confused.

"Benke, that's enough," Forrester barked out harshly. "Whatever this guy says is bullshit."

"Who the hell are you?" Nazarov questioned.

"I'm his supervisor. Benke, show him your badge."

"Keep your hands where they are," Nazarov ordered.

"I told him a dozen times that without a murder weapon we've got nothing," said Forrester, sounding like he was attacking Benke again. "Now he's dragged us out here for no reason. I'm tempted to take him off this case." Forrester returned Benke's glare.

"You're a real jerk, you know that?" Benke fired back.

"That's it," said Forrester. "Just you wait until we get back to the squad room."

"Quiet! Both of you!" Nazarov shouted. "And what about him? What's an Army general doing here?" he asked, not realizing evidently that Hattie was wearing a Marine uniform.

"You guys are acting like a couple of idiots," Hattie said to Forrester and Benke both. Back at Nazarov, "Are you the owner of this house?"

"I live here," Nazarov replied hesitantly. "But I'm not the owner."

"There were fingerprints in this house that belong to a guy named Jake Blackwell. These two think he might be the killer. Blackwell is a former Army soldier and I needed to verify these prints myself before I handed over any confidential files. The Army could get into a lot of trouble handing out information like that without verification."

"It doesn't take a general to do that," Nazarov said dubiously. "You're lying to me."

"I'm not lying," Hattie said quickly. "Part of it is that Blackwell and I served in the same outfit in Iraq and he was a friend of mine. He saved my life back then, and I'm not about to let him be arrested for murder unless I verifiy the situation for myself. I owe him that much."

Quick thinking, thought Benke, and it sounded believable.

"So you think Blackwell killed my brother."

Benke's eyes narrowed. That was new information. "We're pretty sure of it," he responded in Hattie's place. "Blackwell has a reputation, and we know he had experience with torture. His fingerprints were all over this house, including the crime scene downstairs. It has to be him. Now, if I found three strangers snooping around my house, I think I'd be holding an AK-47 on them just like you are, but if you put down that gun we can forget about this little episode and go on and do our jobs."

"Let me see your IDs," Nazarov ordered, his eyes darting back and forth.

"My ID is in the car," Forrester announced. "Do you want me to get it?"

"Stay where you are," Nazarov snarled. He took a step back.

"Now listen," said Benke, grabbing Nazarov's attention yet again. "You're holding two police officers and a military officer hostage. Up to now we can explain this as you thinking someone was breaking into your house. However, if you don't put that gun down immediately we will treat it as a hostage-taking situation, which is a serious felony. You could be looking at some severe jail time, pal."

"IDs," spat Nazarov. "One at a time, and don't try anything stupid." He pointed the AK-47 at Benke. "You first. Slowly. Slide it over to me."

Benke did as he was instructed and slid his badge and police ID over to Nazarov.

Hattie was next, and upon seeing his Marine Corps ID Nazarov said, "I thought you told me you were in the Army."

" _You_ said I was in the Army," Hattie countered. "What difference does it make?"

"You're lying to me!" Nazarov repeated, shouting frantically now. He walked over to Forrester and put the muzzle of the AK-47 an inch from his head. "Let me see your ID."

Forrester said, "Easy, okay? I'm going to reach down with my left hand now. My ID is in my jacket pocket."

"Keep your hands behind your head," Nazarov said sharply, and he parted Forrester's jacket. Spotting the nine millimeter hanging below Forrester's armpit, he snagged the gun and pulled Forrester's ID from his pocket, and skipped back out of reach. "Defense Intelligence Agency," he said furiously. "You're all lying to me." He was on Forrester in an instant and cracked him on the side of the head with the stock of the AK-47. Spinning back toward Benke, "Your gun," he demanded, and Benke slid it across the floor. "You too," he shouted at Hattie.

"I'm not armed."

Nazarov did a pat down on Hattie but all he found was a cell phone. He proceeded to take Benke's and Forrester's phones as well. Suddenly, he turned back toward Benke who was still in place with his hands behind his head. "What did you just do?"

"I haven't moved a muscle. Your mind is playing tricks on you, ace. Why don't you put that gun down before you hurt yourself?"

"You're only ones who are going to get hurt," Nazarov growled. "Don't move until I tell you to move."

"What, are you gonna keep us like this forever?" Benke asked tauntingly.

The question seemed to take hold. Nazarov's eyes darted again as if he noticed something behind Benke in the adjoining room. "How many of you are there?"

"Just the three of us, bub."

Nazarov's index finger danced across the trigger of the AK-47, and he looked at each of them in turn. "You're right," he said. "I need to put an end to this." He brought the weapon to his shoulder.

* * * * *

Scotty jogged past the house at 9:15 p.m. and noted immediately that the same two cars were in the driveway that were there in the afternoon. They were in different positions, however, and that meant they'd been driven away at some point and had come back. Nervous now, knowing who those cars belonged to, he thought: this was some serious stuff happening. The fact that his mom had given him her gun made him all the more so. Talk about crazy. What happened to the overprotective soccer mom he'd known his whole life? And letting him do this reconnaissance work? Really? She was off the deep end and he wondered for a second if she was bi-polar. He knew a girl in school who was bi-polar, and that was how his mom was acting. As for his dad, he was even worse. He'd never seen his dad flipping in and out of reality like that, and he wondered what would happen if Tiny wasn't there to help his dad see things straight.

Okay, his parents were clearly desperate, and they were counting on him to do his part to get Rachel back. Family first and at all costs, right? He was thankful, now, that his dad had taught him to shoot, but he also knew that using a weapon under pressure was way different than using it on the range. His dad had told him that many times. He'd also been told that a gun was to be used for protection and only as a last resort. Feeling the butt of the P30 inside his waistband, he thought: how would he know when that was?

His mission was to get a look inside the house, and he was worried now that he might have been spotted. He almost choked when he'd pulled himself up to the window ledge and saw that Nazarov dude pointing AK-47 at three guys who were on their knees in front of him. Scotty recognized one of the guys as the detective who came to see his dad early that morning, but had no clue about the other two. One of them was wearing a uniform. He sort of panicked when it looked like Nazarov was getting ready to shoot, and he slipped from the window ledge—twice. That's when Nazarov looked his way, and that's when he'd dropped to the ground.

Moving back and away from the window, hidden by a group of large pine trees that surrounded the property, Scotty hunkered down into a squat and remembered something else his dad had told him. "Be sure you always have an escape path," he'd instructed. "You can probably outrun anyone that might come after you so haul ass out of there if you have to, especially if the cops come. The last thing you need is to be fifteen and get caught with a gun on you. Ditch the thing if you have to."

Taking in the smell of pine needles, he felt them tickling his neck as he waited to see if Nazarov came to the window or came snooping around outside. Nothing happened. He waited another five minutes and crept through the darkness to a spot parallel to the lighted window he'd just come from, and waited again behind some trees. Again, nothing happened. Looking around to determine which way he'd run if got caught, he edged out from behind the trees and crawled back to the window. The light was leaking all over him. With his stomach in his throat, he turned his baseball cap backwards and reached up, clamping onto the window ledge and pulling himself up noiselessly with one mighty pull up. He could barely hang on without using his feet as he'd done the previous time, but he couldn't take the chance of making any noise. His arms and fingers straining, he pulled with all his might until his eyes finally cleared the ledge. He looked left and saw nothing inside the lighted family room. He looked right and nearly croaked when Nazarov's face suddenly appeared in the window, wide-eyed and wild. He screamed and fell to the ground and did a four-and-a-half-minute mile down Meetinghouse Road until he reached River Road. Finally satisfied that no one was chasing him on foot or by car, he sprinted behind a church and cowered down behind a dumpster. With his hand shaking and sweat pouring down his neck, he pulled the pistol from his waistband and sat there until he stopped hyperventilating. Then he called his dad on the cell phone.

* * * * *

Being held at gunpoint was not a good situation, thought Hattie, but it was better than being shot. From what he knew about terrorist groups, that was the preferred course of action when someone got in the way, but Nazarov didn't go there—at least not yet. It seemed like either he didn't want to pull the trigger, or couldn't, and it was hard to tell which. Either way, it seemed like Nazarov didn't know what to do with them. Benke was trying to rattle him and it seemed to be working, but it was also making him angry. Scared and angry were not a good combination. Hattie wondered what Nazarov's role was with the Uzbek Islamic Front, or if he was part of it at all.

"Who's out there?" Nazarov shouted as his eyes flicked nervously from window to window.

"What makes you think anyone is out there?" Hattie questioned.

Nazarov was cracking, hopping from window to window. Benke stirred the pot a little more. "Maybe it's the guys who killed your brother."

Forrester piled on. "You're a sitting duck, pal. Making it easy for them."

"Quiet!" Nazarov shouted. He stepped from the side of the window and one of the cell phones he'd just collected popped off, causing him to flinch.

"That's my ringtone," said Benke. "It's probably the wife calling to see when I'm coming home. If I don't answer she's probably going to call the station." He looked up at Nazarov. "Wives are like that." It stopped ringing. "Oh-oh., now you've done it." It started ringing again a moment later and all four of them stared at it as if it was getting ready to explode. "That's probably her calling back," said Benke.

"Can they track your phone?" Forrester asked.

"They do if I'm on duty and I don't answer," Benke replied. "You know, in case I'm lying in a gutter someplace."

Nazarov was sweating. "What are you so nervous about?" Hattie asked. "Are you afraid that what happened to your brother is going to happen to you?"

"Quiet!" Nazarov yelled again.

"That's it, isn't it? Your brother was tortured by someone who wants those blueprints and now they're coming after you."

Nazarov's eyes were on him in a second, as were Benke's and Forrester's. "What do you know about that?" Nazarov growled as he stepped over and pointed the AK-47 at Hattie's head.

"Easy now," said Forrester who was right next to Hattie. He slid his knees forward a few inches toward Nazarov.

Nazarov swung the AK-47 toward him now and shouted, "Don't move!"

"Okay, okay," said Forrester. "But how long do you think it's going to be before one of us takes that gun from you?"

"I'll kill you!" Nazarov screamed as he tried to bash Forrester in the head again. Forrester managed to block the blow with his arm and Nazarov retreated, stepping back and out of arm's reach.

"If you were going to kill us we'd already be dead," said Hattie.

Benke's cell phone went off again and it seemed louder somehow. "That's probably the station calling this time."

Panicked, Nazarov turned and blasted four rounds into the three cell phones lying on the floor nearby. The clackety sound of the AK-47 was deafening. "Tell me what you know about those blueprints," he said to Hattie again. It wasn't a request.

His ears ringing, Hattie said, "I know that a group called the Uzbek Islamic Front wants those blueprints so they can build a miniature nuclear device. I also know that Jake Blackwell saw those blueprints and knows what they are, and these UIF people think he has them."

"He doesn't," Nazarov snapped at him.

"It doesn't matter," said Hattie. "He'll get them. The UIF people have kidnapped his daughter and are holding her hostage until he hands them over." Hattie looked Nazarov straight in the eye. "If you have those blueprints, you're a dead man. Either the UIF scumbags will take you out or Blackwell will come after you, but either way it doesn't matter to me. Regardless of who has them there's no way I can let a bunch of terrorists take those blueprints."

Chapter 17... The Room

Monday, April 28th, 9:45 p.m. "Dad, that Nazarov guy is in the house."

"What's he doing?"

"He's got three men in there and it looks like he's holding an AK-47 on them. One of them is that detective that came to see you this morning and another of them is wearing an Army uniform."

"You saw this with your own eyes?"

"I did," said Scotty. "The men were on their knees with their hands behind their heads, and I thought for sure he was going to shoot them."

"What else can you tell me?"

"Uh, only that I got caught."

Panic shot up Jake's spine when he thought that he now had two children being held by captors. "What happened?" he asked frantically.

"Dad, I'm okay. I hauled ass out of there like you told me, but that Nazarov guy saw my face through the window."

"Did he recognize you?"

"I have no idea."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm sitting behind a church next to a dumpster. I'm pretty sure no one came after me."

Thank God, thought Jake as a wave of relief washed over him. He and Tiny were about a hundred yards north of Nazarov's house and about twenty yards off Meetinghouse Road in a wooded section of land that was posted with no trespassing signs. Tiny was wheezing from the effort of tramping through the soggy underbrush.

"Saying that you got caught is a poor choice or words, soldier. You scared me half to death."

"Oh. Sorry Dad. What do I do now? Do you want me to go back to that house?"

"No, you've performed your mission well. We'll take it from here. I want you to get to a public place and call your mother on her cell phone. She should be close by now. Tell her to pick you up before she brings us the weapons, and tell her to call us. We'll RV with both of you."

"RV?"

"Rendezvous, soldier. Any further questions?"

"No, Dad. I got it."

"Roger that," said Jake, and he ended the call.

"How you feelin', Army?" Tiny asked, watching him.

"Fine and dandy, Sir. Why do you ask?"

Tiny just said, "Huh." He waited a moment and asked, "How do you want to do this?"

"A frontal assault is probably not a good idea," Jake speculated.

"I'm surprised you're even considering it. There's only two of us, Army, and I'm afraid my days of charging into enemy fire are gone."

Tiny was continuing to play along in whatever time period Jake's mind was operating at the moment. Bursts of present and past seemed to intermingle, and even in the shrouded darkness of the surrounding woods he could ascertain Jake's faraway regard of the situation. Jake was operating on a soldier's instinct, one designed to shield him from the reality of possible if not imminent death. It was how soldiers controlled fear and the immobilizing effect it had on them. That was PTSD, and Jake was being consumed by it.

Tiny said, "Have you taken your pills, soldier?"

"Oh, right. Thanks for reminding me." Jake took pulled a vial out of his inside jacket pocket and dry swallowed two of his anti-seizure tablets. "Those are my last two pills," he said.

"Great," Tiny whispered to himself.

* * * * *

The rendezvous with Lisa and Scotty took place at precisely ten o'clock. Jake and Tiny slinked out of the woods looking like a couple of escaped prisoners and stepped into the high beams.

"You smell like the part of the barn you shovel out," Lisa said as they crawled into the back seat. "In the back," she added before they had a chance to ask about the weapons.

Jake reached into the cargo area and found the AR-15 and the AK-47 along with two loaded magazines for each weapon, plus an extra box of ammunition for each one as well. "Do you have a preference?" he said to Tiny.

"Yeah," Tiny replied. "My preference is that we stop what we're doing."

That prompted Lisa to turn in her seat, the look on her face a questioning one. "Last chance," Jake said, knowing what she was thinking and that Tiny's offhand remark registered with her. "I'll stop this right now if you want me to."

"What are the chances of us seeing Rachel alive again if we stop this and call the police?" she asked. "I need you to be honest, Jake. I think I deserve that."

The burbling sound of the Explorer's engine was like a rockslide in the silence. After giving the question some thought, Jake held her eyes and said unwaveringly, "We know what they've threatened to do if we call the police, and I think without those blueprints there is zero chance of seeing Rachel alive again. If we get hold of the blueprints, however, I think there's a fifty-fifty chance that we'll make it out alive, depending on how many of them there are. I'd assume there would be four or five at least, two as outside lookouts and two or three inside to make the exchange. Now, with that detective and the military soldier inside...." Jake took a quick swing of the eyes toward Tiny and said, "I assume that's your friend General McCloskey, by the way... this whole thing could go south in a heartbeat. All of the assailants will be heavily armed. They will all be dedicated to their mission, and there will be no hesitation on their part to use their weapons. The way I see it, we'll have to take Nazarov out and find those blueprints, but in what order that happens I don't know. Then, we will have to negotiate for Rachel's release. Once they have the blueprints, however, and have verified their authenticity, they'll try to kill us. From that point on it'll be a crap shoot." Having given his opinion, Jake sat there silently and waited for her reaction.

"How do you propose to stop that from happening?" Lisa asked.

Without hesitation Jake said, "Simple. I think we'll have to kill them first before they have a chance to fire on us." He said it with such nonchalance that it was shocking.

Equally shocking was Lisa's reaction. The sobbing was gone now, and if she was suffering internally she was hiding it well. She was on emotional roller coaster of extreme highs and extreme lows and outwardly now, like Jake, she seemed to be a psychological flat line. "Scotty, what do you think?"

Scotty seemed surprised that he had any say in the matter. "I don't know what to say except that Rachel is a good person and she doesn't deserve to be treated like her life is meaningless." He sat on his thoughts for a moment and continued, "What if we don't find the blueprints? What happens then?"

"Then we're in the same situation," Jake replied. "Without the blueprints we would have no choice but to take them out in order to save Rachel."

Scotty nodded. "It sounds like we have no choice but to fight them."

"Scotty, do you understand the possible consequences of that?" Lisa asked.

"I think I do," said Scotty. "I think I could live with anything that could happen if we fight, but I don't think I could live with the guilt of letting Rachel die without trying to save her."

"Deep thoughts for a fifteen year old," said Tiny. "Spoken like a true Marine."

To which Jake responded, "And I'm afraid this is the end of the line for you, Tiny. I can't ask you to be part of this any longer. It's too dangerous."

"Oh, so you're willing to risk your life and the lives of your family members, but I'm not good enough, huh?"

"We're family," said Jake. "We stay together no matter what."

That stopped Tiny in his tracks. He looked at Jake and grabbed the AK-47 out of his hand. "Listen, I'm too old and too fat to do you any good on the assault," he said, "but you're going to need a spotter if you're going to accomplish your mission. You can't do it without me."

It wasn't the time to argue. "Are we a go?" Jake asked, knowing that was as far as Tiny was going to budge.

Lisa held it together and said apprehensively, "We're a go."

"Scotty?"

Bravely, Scotty said, "Go, _Sir_."

"Okay," said Jake. "Find a place to hide this truck and each of you take a position. One of you about fifty yards up Meetinghouse Road, one of you about fifty yards down. We need to know when the kidnappers show up. Chances are they'll do a pass-by beforehand, and if they see those cars in the driveway they might get spooked and abort the exchange. Tiny, I'd like you to park yourself across the street from the house. Stay hidden, all of you, and don't get captured. If that happens we're back to square one. No, make that square zero because in all probability there won't be anyone coming to save you. Everyone got it?"

"Got it," they all said in unison.

"Lisa, you take the P30."

"What about me?" said Scotty.

Lisa hesitated and looked at Jake. "I can't do it," she said. "This isn't like before."

All this talk about weapons was causing her to have second thoughts about whether Scotty should be armed, despite the fact that she'd already acquiesced to it twice. Jake said, "Would you rather he goes into this without an opportunity to defend himself? If he gets caught, if any of us get caught, the end result will be the same whether we are armed or not." He paused to let that sink in. "Trust me on this. I know how these people think. They're ready to throw their lives away; taking one of us with them will only enhance their martyrdom. We all need to be able to fight back."

"I've got the Kalashnikov," said Tiny. "She can take my .357."

"Fine," said Jake. "Don't deplete your cell phone batteries, and make sure no one can see the light from your phone if you use it. We picked off a lot of enemy soldiers that way. Oh, and make sure it's set on vibrate." He checked the magazines for his AR-15 and shoved one of them into the weapon, the other into the pocket of his cargo pants. Next he checked his .45 and his M9 to make sure a round was chambered in both of them. He adjusted his KA-BAR knife on his ankle and pulled down his camouflaged hat. "Okay boys and girls, keep your head on a swivel. Stay alert, stay alive. Situational awareness is everything." He gave Lisa a kiss and said, "I'll see you on the other side of this thing," then he opened the door on the Explorer and stepped out.

* * * * *

Nazarov paced back and forth like a feral cat suddenly caged. Those blueprints were worth millions, tens of millions perhaps, and too many people were after them now. One way to lessen the squeeze of their pursuit would be to get rid of the three men kneeling in front of him. He looked at a clock on the bookshelf, noting that the time was passing quickly. He needed to secure those blueprints soon, knowing that he'd have to contend with Blackwell again. If anything, Blackwell's anger would be dialed up even higher and there would be no hesitation on Blackwell's part to slice him into pieces and take those blueprints to save his daughter's life. Either that or Blackwell would summarily kill him and engage with the UIF fighters whether he had the blueprints or not. Nazarov touched the bruises on his face. He'd already risked his life over those damned blueprints. Fighting Blackwell now was a losing proposition.

He considered something that the general had said to him, which was that he, Nazarov, was as good as dead as soon as the kidnappers found out he had the blueprints. The man sounded like he knew what he was talking about. As such, he'd have to take those blueprints back to Uzbekistan and negotiate his deal there, not here, and not tonight. He was sure of that now; that's what he needed to do. As for Blackwell's daughter, that was not something he could control. The world was an unfair place, wasn't it?

Nazarov looked at all three men. That general wasn't about to let him walk out of there with those blueprints, and the DIA agent would do whatever the general wanted. The detective had a different agenda, but he wasn't about to let him walk out of there either. Debating his next move, Nazarov figured they were all trained combatants to some degree, and three against one were not good odds. If they decided to make a move one of them might get through even though he was armed and they were not. If that happened it would be an even split on who'd win the resulting fight. He couldn't take that chance. He had to get that envelope, the one with the blood smudge on it, and get out of there _now._ He spotted a roll of plastic tape that the IT workers had left behind. It was only a few feet away. He could use that to immobilize all three men and make his escape. He didn't know if he had the stomach for killing, not like this, and inexplicably he thought about Blackwell's daughter again.

"Lie down," Nazarov screamed in his most intimidating voice. He grabbed the tape and noticed that his hands were shaking. "Face down. Keep your hands behind your heads."

Benke was the smallest of the three and Nazarov put the muzzle of his AK-47 against his head. "No tricks or you're dead. Wrap their hands and feet with this," he instructed. "Stay on your knees the whole time. You got it?"

Benke just nodded as he took the roll of tape.

"And make it tight," Nazarov ordered. Benke turned toward him and Nazarov tried to smash him in the head with the rifle stock as he'd done to Forrester earlier, but Benke managed to block most of the blow with his arm. Nazarov stepped back and out of reach as he realized that Benke could have grabbed onto the rifle.

"There was no need to do that," Benke said boldly. "Why don't we talk about this?"

"Quiet!" Nazarov shouted, not falling for Benke's trickery. "And I want you to put tape across their mouths as well. I know what you're trying to do."

"Hey, asshole," Forrester shouted, continuing with the bad cop routine. "What do you think is going to happen when—" Forrester got no further with his question as Nazarov fired a round from the AK-47 an inch from his head. Construction dust billowed off the floor and the sudden smell of burnt gunpowder overtook anything else.

"The next one will be in your ear," Nazarov warned. "Hurry up with that tape," he barked, and he gave Benke a kick in the ribs.

Benke finished immobilizing Hattie and Forrester. "Don't worry boys," he said despite Nazarov's warnings. "If he was going to kill us he'd have already done it."

Nazarov gave him a hard rap in the back with the butt of his rifle. "I told you to be quiet." He shoved Benke to the floor and put a knee and his full weight into the middle of Benke's back. Moments later, Benke was secured like the other two. Glancing at the clock on the bookshelf again, Nazarov noted that it was 10:15 p.m. He still had time to get hold of those blueprints and get as far away from that house as possible.

* * * * *

Jake heard the shot. Already pulsing with adrenaline, an extra jolt of it coursed through his body. Crouching outside the passenger side window of what he assumed was Benke's car, he made a tunnel with his hands and tried to spot an ignition key. Nothing doing. Same with the other car, the one with the letters DIA on the license plate. He had to get those cars out of that driveway. If he didn't, it was a pretty good bet that the kidnappers would not go through with the exchange and that would spell disaster for Rachel. He'd been through ransom deliveries before, and he knew that exchange points and drop points were always scouted out ahead of time, usually by both parties despite all the warnings by the kidnappers not to do so. For all he knew, they could have been watching him right now. The keys for those cars were in that house, most likely in someone's pocket, and it was one more thing he had to deal with besides Nazarov and the blueprints.

Scooting to the other side of the cars, he checked out the house and noted that only one area was lit up inside, that being the construction area where he'd done the work for Nazarov. He wondered what the single shot meant and if another murder had been committed inside. He wondered further why there was only one shot. If Nazarov was going to kill Benke and McCloskey and the third guy that Jake figured was a DIA agent that McCloskey had brought along, there would have been three reports coming from the house instead of one. Was Nazarov desperate enough to do that? There was only one way to find out.

Jake ducked down as a couple of SUVs passed slowly on Meetinghouse Road, close together and one behind the other. Time was ticking away, he noted as he waited for them to pass. The three lighted windows were in one quadrant of the house. Seeing nothing there, he did a wide circle and took cover in a stand of tall pine trees that were part of the wooded acreage that surrounded the house and the significantly-sized front and back yards. From the way Scotty had described his own reconnaissance, Jake figured that Scotty might have been crouching behind these same trees an hour earlier. Good job Scotty, he thought. Closer now to the house now, he could see that the window ledges were about eight feet off the ground. Jake was a good bit taller than Scotty, but he was also a good bit heavier and pulling himself up to peek into any of those windows would surely generate noise as he scraped against the outside brick. Not knowing what was on the other side of those windows, it wasn't a risk he wanted to take. Instead, he picked a pine tree that was about a foot in diameter and clamped his arms around it. Shimmying up about ten feet, he was able to see three men lying face down with their hands secured behind their backs. Nazarov was nowhere to be seen. How the hell had Nazarov managed to disarm and immobilize all three men?

Suddenly, a light came on in one of the upstairs windows. Knowing the layout of the house, master bedroom, thought Jake—and Nazarov. He moved quickly. Sprinting now, he ran to the front door and pushed the thumb latch. Locked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key he'd gotten from Whitney. He inserted it and turned slowly, and his cell phone suddenly vibrated as if there was an earthquake in his pocket. Startled, he checked the screen. It was Scotty. "Whisper," was all he said.

"Dad, two SUVs, one with three people inside, one with four, moving slow, coming past me for the second time and headed toward the house."

Scotty was fifty yards down the road. "Shit," Jake croaked, and he raced to the dark side of the house. Now what? The kidnappers had said no cops, and the two cars in the driveway definitely looked like cop cars. This couldn't be good for Rachel. Jake pulled his hat down and collapsed onto his stomach, only his eyes protruding around the corner of the house.

"Dad, they're slowing down, right in front of the house now."

"Got it, Scotty. Hang up." Jake clicked off and got into a sniper position. He did the calculations quickly. If the kidnappers were inside those SUVs and they pulled into the U-shaped driveway, he'd have no choice but to take them out in order to save Rachel. There would be six of them by Scotty's count, and he'd have to wait until they got out of the vehicles before he could fire—except for the one next to Rachel. Regardless of whether they pulled her out of the vehicle or she remained inside, he'd be dead with the first shot. Jake was pretty sure he could take out two more before they figured out where the shots were coming from, but the others would react by that time and it was anyone's guess whether they'd fire at him, scatter, or go back to the vehicles. Taking out six of them without endangering Rachel was almost impossible, but he had no choice. Maybe Tiny could take out a couple from the woods across the road. Watching the SUVs, waiting for them to pull in, Jake called Tiny who answered immediately.

"Do you see this?" he whispered.

"Right in front of me, Army."

"If the shooting starts, I need you to take out the ones on the flanks first."

"Roger that," said Tiny.

Jake propped his left elbow on the ground and positioned the AR-15. He was thoroughly familiar with the weapon, it being the civilian semi-automatic version of the Army's M16, which he'd carried throughout his military career. At the distance involved, he could put six rounds into a coffee cup with his eyes closed. For him, it was point and shoot and darkness wasn't an issue. He waited. The SUVs sat there at the mouth of the U-shaped driveway, idling. They had to be right in front of Tiny, Jake speculated. He clicked the safety to off and relaxed his grip. He thought about his breathing and deliberately controlled his diaphragm. "Let's get it on," he whispered to himself, but the SUVs didn't pull in. After waiting for probably a full minute, he heard the motor of the lead SUV rev and it slowly swung from the mouth of the driveway back onto the pavement of Meetinghouse Road. The second SUV followed immediately. Had that been Rachel's death sentence, he wondered. His insides were churning.

From the intensity of impending battle to the despair of not knowing if he'd ever see his daughter again, Jake's emotions were colliding inside him. His plan was falling to pieces and he knew he didn't have much time. He had to think. How could he stop playing defense and start controlling the action instead of reacting to it? Think, Jake, _think_. How could he start pulling the strings and buy himself some time? It was risky, and he thought he might have an answer, but he needed those blueprints first.

* * * * *

Jake took a moment to collect himself, but a moment was all he had. He'd felt this way before when one or more soldiers in his platoon, his friends, got taken down, but the mission had to go on. The window to the master bedroom window was still lit, he observed. Hoping that Nazarov was up there and knowing that he'd already unlocked the front door, he went back to it and slowly pushed down on the thumb latch. The click seemed incredibly loud. The foyer area was lit, he noticed through the crack. Not knowing what was on the other side of the door, he moved to the side so that his body was no longer directly in front of it. He'd seen enough soldiers get shot that way to know that the door wasn't much protection, even one as thick and heavy as that one. A round from an AK-47 could go through it and still have enough energy to kill a man.

He pushed with his left hand while holding his weapon with his right. The door opened slowly without incident. Peeking in, looking up the double-sided stairway that led to the second level, he saw nothing. He took his first step inside, then his second when he heard the familiar voice.

"Stay where you are."

The voice had come from directly in front of him where the center hall opened up into the large gourmet kitchen on the back side of the house. Nazarov was down low, behind the large central kitchen island, and Jake could see the barrel of the AK-47 poking out from the side of the island and pointing right at him. A bullet from Nazarov's gun would be faster than him, so he didn't try to shoot. Plus, he needed to squeeze Nazarov's throat until the son of a bitch told him where the blueprints were located.

"Ruslan, old pal. Long time no see. How you been?"

"Your humor fails to amuse me."

"Yeah, well, at this point it's all I got. Where are those blueprints?"

Nazarov laughed. "I don't think you are in a position to be so demanding. Put the gun down."

"You're the one who is in no position to be demanding. Now tell me where those blueprints are and I won't kill you."

"Put the gun down!" Nazarov screamed, and he fired a shot from the AK-47 that tore through the left part of Jake's camouflaged jacket.

Jake immediately felt the burn along his ribcage and he collapsed to one knee. He clutched his side as he felt the warm blood start to ooze. He dropped the AR-15 to the floor.

"Kick it away," Nazarov shouted.

Jake could tell the man was desperate, and as such he was dangerous. He guessed that having four men come after you in your own house would do that. He pushed the AR-15 away toward Nazarov.

"Now the two pistols from inside your jacket."

"You've been paying attention," Jake said as he extracted his M9 first and then his .45. He slid them up the hallway floor. He checked the side of his ribcage and his hand came away soaked with blood. He held his left hand there and put pressure on the wound. Luckily, it felt like the bullet had passed through just below the skin, which meant it probably hadn't pierced his kidney. Feigning more pain than the wound was causing, he stayed down and groaned loudly. His intent was to expose the wound to Nazarov whose attention would most certainly be drawn to the blood and not to his right hand, which was ever so close to the knife strapped to his right ankle. "Why don't you come a little closer so I can kill you?" he said to Nazarov, but Nazarov didn't move.

Jake's hand came away from the wound and he steadied himself against the wall, smearing it with blood. Trying to reach down so he could pull the KA-BAR, he felt himself keeling over, going dizzy now, everything swirling around him. Knowing he was going into a blackout, he wondered whether he would ever have the opportunity to save Rachel. Nazarov came out from behind the kitchen island and stood over him. Jake looked up. "The blueprints," he croaked out. "Give me the blueprints." The last image he saw was that of Nazarov pointing the AK-47 at him—and then collapsing down on the floor right next to him.

* * * * *

His side was burning as if he'd been stabbed with a white-hot sword. He heard voices, several of them, all of them having the urgent tone of people in anguish. All that told him he was still alive. "Rachel," he said, feeling the word stick in his throat. "What happened to Rachel?" The images around him sharpened and they rushed to him and hovered. None of them looked happy.

"Oh my God, Jake," he heard Lisa exclaim as she pushed the others aside and knelt down next to him. "It's me, honey, and you're awake now. Can you hear me all right?"

She held his head in both hands and he could feel her pressing, shaking him almost. Not exactly a show of affection, but she was frantic. The stress on her was enormous, he figured, realizing now that he'd had another blackout. "What about Rachel?" he asked again as he thought about the consequences of what had happened.

"We don't know, Jake," Lisa responded.

He pulled himself into a sitting position and felt the pain cut through him. That's when he spotted the body laid out on the floor nearby. It was Nazarov. He looked past Lisa, spotting the detective—Benke, he remembered—along with Tiny's friend General McCloskey and another guy he didn't recognize. Tiny and Scotty were gaping at him from behind the three men. His eyes shifted to Nazarov's prone body. "Is he dead?" he asked, and the resulting silence told him what he already knew.

"I had to, Army," said Tiny as he stepped forward. "He'd already shot at you once and that bullet went through you and clean out the front door. It plunked into a tree across the road not a foot from my head. When you went down and he came at you with that weapon on his shoulder, I thought sure as shootin' that he was going to take you out. I had no choice but to put one in his chest. I guess that was all it took." Tiny looked at the ground and added, "I haven't shot at another man in forty years."

"How long have I been out?" Jake asked urgently.

"About an hour," Tiny replied. "I've been keeping track of the time." He hesitated and glanced at Lisa. "I know what you're thinking, Army. We still got about half an hour before the exchange, but that had to be them in those two SUVs."

"So?"

"So they're not gonna show." It was Benke's voice now, and Jake stabbed him with a look.

"What the hell do you know?" Jake coughed out. "Those blueprints are somewhere in this house. All we have to do is find them."

"Dad, there were six of them," said Scotty.

Jake hauled himself up off the floor. "I am not going to let Rachel die," he declared. "Not in a million years." He swung his eyes back the other way. "And no more cops," he spat at Benke. "We need to get these kidnappers to come to us."

"And how are we going to do that?" Benke asked doubtingly.

Jake reached into the side pocket of his camouflaged pants and pulled out a cell phone—Nazarov's cell phone, the one he'd been using to correspond with the kidnappers. "Just watch," he said. He scrolled and punched the most recent number listed in the call history. He put the phone to his ear, noting that McCloskey and the DIA guy were staring him down. He took a couple of deep breaths trying to clear the cobwebs from his head and pressed on his side, realizing for the first time that the belt from his pants was wrapped around his chest and cinched tight to put pressure on the wound. Tiny's work, he knew instantly, wondering how many times Tiny had seen medics do that while pulling men out of the sausage grinder that was Vietnam. He got a recording: _The number you have dialed is not available. Please leave a message after the tone._ "Goddamn it," he cursed. Even terrorists had fucking voicemail. He dialed again with the same result. His face lost what little color it had and he sat there stunned and lifeless. Had they lost Rachel? He didn't dare look at Lisa. No doubt she was thinking the same thing. He tried again with the same result. "No...ooo!" he screamed at the top of his lungs and tears started to pour down his face like rain. An agonizing minute passed during which Lisa and Scotty seemed to retreat to their own individual spaces to process what they were seeing, and the phone vibrated in his hand. He looked at the screen and summoned the most audacious attitude he could muster. It was them.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" he snapped belligerently into the phone. "You said no cops and I go by the house and I see two cop cars sitting in the driveway... Don't hand me that crap. I don't know what you're trying to pull, but you're not going to get those blueprints until I get what I want... No, you can't. I told you, Nazarov is dead. If you want those blueprints you're gonna have to go through me and you're gonna have to do this my way. First things first, I want to talk to Rachel right now or this deal is over." His eyes found Lisa's as he waited, and waited, until her voice was on the phone.

"Daddy? Daddy is that you? I'm scared. Why are these people holding me?"

As bad as the situation still was, Jake felt a wave of relief wash over him. Rachel was alive, but she was scared to death. "Rachel honey, I want you to talk to your mother." He motioned for Lisa to come to the phone and she was there is a second.

"Rachel darling, this is Mom. Honey, are you all right?"

"Mom I'm scared. Who are these men? When can I come home?" And she was gone.

"Rachel.... Rachel? Rachel!" Lisa screamed as her bloodshot eyes darted back to Jake.

He took the phone back. "We need to reset the exchange location," he demanded. He listened some more and said emphatically, "Absolutely not. I want it to be a public location. I don't want anyone hiding in the bushes waiting to take me out... No way. Meet me at the VFW Post on MacArthur Boulevard... Well then Google it and figure it out. I'll be there in half an hour. If you want those blueprints, so will you." Jake ended the call and couldn't help but notice that everyone was staring at him. "What?" he said.

"Ballsy," said Tiny. "There's only one problem with that, Army. You don't have the blueprints and the one person who knows where they are is really dead now."

Jake picked up his AR-15 and said, "Blueprints or no blueprints, I'm gonna get Rachel and take her home. It's just a question of how many of them have to die in order for that to happen."

Hesitantly, Benke said, "Ah, I might be able to help with the blueprint thing."

Speaking for the first time since Tiny had cut the tape off his arms and legs, Hattie said, "How are you going to do that, Detective?"

"Where's the dining room?" Benke asked.

"Right through there," Jake replied.

Benke stepped off in the direction indicated and everyone followed. The room was furnished with a massive china cabinet on the longest wall on the far side, with an additional buffet on the shorter wall. Richly upholstered host and hostess chairs were positioned at either end of a large dining table, with four guest chairs along each side. The whole table and chair setting sat atop a huge oriental rug. Benke surveyed the situation and said, "We need to access the floor under this rug." Once the table and chairs were out of the way he started pulling the rug back onto itself to reveal the wood floor underneath.

"What are you looking for?" Hattie asked.

With the rug pulled back, Benke bent at the waist and carefully examined the dusty, heavily-grained wood floor. "There," he said. "That's where it opens." Hattie was staring at him and Benke motioned for him to come over. "See the hinges? I'm pretty sure this is a door that leads to a safe room. If the blueprints are hidden anywhere in this house, they're probably in there. Question is, how do we get into it?"

Jake came over and examined the area. The hinges were recessed into the tongue and groove channel where the floor boards came together. If there was a door there—and now he was convinced there was—it was constructed so that the breaks in the floor boards were not interrupted. The door was perfectly aligned with the other floor boards and fit the floor pattern so that someone would have to be looking for it to know it was there. There was no outside handle or latch to open it, however, which meant there had to be a release for it.

"It opens like a gas tank cover on your car," said Jake. "There's a pull cord or an electronic release for it somewhere in the room."

All of a sudden the door went _plunk_ and the floor planks comprising front edge of the door popped open just as Jake had predicted. From the edge of the room Scotty said, "Found it." He indicated a piece of rosette molding at the top of a window frame. He smiled and said, "I remember seeing something like this in one of those old Indiana Jones movies."

Forrester happened to be standing next to the door and he went to open it. Unseen by the others, Hattie held him back. "Let them," he said to Forrester, and with everyone's attention on the trap door he put his lips to Forrester's ear and whispered, "We need those blueprints, Dave." Forrester nodded.

Benke and Jake pulled the door open together. Inside was a narrow ladder and Jake was down it in a second. Benke followed and indicated to the others that they should stay where they were. "I've seen one of these rooms before," Jake remarked as he stepped off the ladder into the approximately eight-by-ten room. "It's nothing more than a survival bunker meant to provide protection from anyone breaking into the house, or from a dangerous situation like a tornado." He looked around noting the shelves that were supposed to be used to store food and equipment. These shelves were empty. "How did you know this room was here?" he asked Benke.

"I talked to the housekeeper," Benke replied.

Jake didn't respond. His eyes were sweeping every inch of the room looking for the envelope containing the W54 blueprints, but it was nowhere to be seen. Clutching his side, he overturned the three cots that were there, angrily flinging blankets and pillows in every direction. He ran his hands under the shelves. There was a cabinet for weapons on the far side—also empty—and he looked for drawers or other storage there. He started banging on the walls, looking for possible hidden compartments. Frantically, he pounded the walls with his fist, harder and harder, moving from one wall to the other. He had to find those blueprints.

"Is this what you're looking for?" Benke asked him from behind.

Jake wheeled toward him. There it was. He took the envelope and flipped it over, zeroing in on the blood stain left there by his bloody index finger. Quickly, he extracted the drawings and looked for the raised seal, verifying that there were five sheets inside. Satisfied, he put the sheets back into the envelope and put it under his arm. Wordlessly, he bent down slowly and extracted the KA-BAR knife that had been strapped to his ankle through the entire ordeal. "I'm going to get my daughter," he said to Benke. "I hope you're not planning on stopping me for any reason."

Benke looked at the knife that was pointed at his heart and just stepped away from the ladder. "Do what you have to do," he said.

Jake's eyes softened, but he reached into Benke's suit coat and took the Glock from his shoulder holster. "I'll leave this for you before I go." With that, he climbed the ladder and closed the trap door. If there was a release for the door on the outside, he figured there had to be a release on the inside and sooner or later Benke would find it. "I have the blueprints," he said to Lisa, Scotty, and Tiny who were all standing together. "We don't have much time."

Jake turned to go back to the construction area where his weapons were located when he heard the click of the hammer from Forrester's gun. It was Hattie doing the talking, however. "I'm afraid I can't let you go anywhere with those blueprints," he said to Jake. "If those UIF terrorists get hold of those drawings and are able to build that weapon, a lot of innocent people will die. I can't let that happen, Jake, and you know I'm bound by duty to take that envelope away from you."

Chapter 18... The Veterans

Monday, April 28th, 11:45 p.m. "Put that gun down, and put that envelope on that table and walk back against the wall. Tiny, you too."

"Hattie, this is his daughter we're talking about," said Tiny.

"And I'm sorry about that," said Hattie, directing his words at Jake. "But I figure there's a fifty-fifty chance that you and your daughter won't make it even if you had those drawings."

"That means there's a fifty-fifty chance that we will make it," said Jake.

"I know you'll take those odds, Jake, but for me it's too much of a gamble. I can't let those blueprints fall into the hands of terrorists who will use them to kill hundreds or thousands of people."

"I'm going after Rachel whether I have those blueprints or not," Jake warned.

"I know you are, and I truly hope you're successful, but this envelope isn't going with you. Good luck." Hattie turned to Forrester and said, "Dave?"

"We're all set," said Forrester, his gun trained on Jake. "Good luck in finding those bastards," he said as he backed out of the room and up the hallway with Hattie. Moments later, they were in the car and gone.

"Jake?" said Lisa when she saw his expression change.

"We'll operate using fire team tactics," said Jake. "It's imperative that we operate as a cohesive unit." He looked at his watch. "We have fifteen minutes to reach the hot zone and get into position."

Jake's demeanor had transformed in a second and it was obvious what was happening. He was a Ranger once again, and Potomac was his battlefield. "Jake?" said Lisa, hoping to reach him wherever he was psychologically. "We're not in Iraq, honey. We're here, in Potomac. Scotty and I are both here. Jake? We need to save Rachel."

"A standard fire-and-movement advance is probably out of the question," said Jake. "More than likely we'll need a sniper shot to take out the hostage escort, and then we'll need some suppressing fire in order to get into position to attack their flank."

The man was losing it. "Sergeant," Tiny called sternly.

Jake looked at him but didn't respond. Instead, he seemed to be verbally paralyzed and on the verge of collapse. His eyes darted from one side to the other, unblinking, and he put his hands on his head as if suddenly in great pain. Tiny grabbed him by the arm and tried to support him, but Jake seemed to be breaking down in front of his eyes. "Rachel...." Jake bellowed. "We have to save Rachel...."

Tiny tried to keep him from collapsing and in doing so detected the trembling in his arms. The eyes went from darting in all directions to a dazed state, and Tiny instinctively took him by the shoulders and forced Jake to look at him. "C'mon Army, snap out of it."

Jake pulled away and pushed back forcefully. "Jesus, Tiny, what the hell are you doing to me?"

Tiny spotted the instant transformation again. In, out, the man was bouncing from present to past and back again like a ping pong ball. "You called me Tiny," he said to Jake.

"Well that's your name, isn't it?"

"We have to go and save Rachel, Jake."

"Yeah, I know. What the hell are we still doing here?"

* * * * *

The VFW Post was ten minutes from Meetinghouse Road, which meant they'd get there at five minutes before midnight. Just to make sure he knew which Jake he was dealing with, Tiny said, "You know we don't have the blueprints, don't you?"

Jake looked at him oddly in the muted light of the Explorer's dashboard. "Of course I know. What kind of a question is that?" Jake felt Lisa's hand on his shoulder. She was in the back seat with Scotty. She didn't say anything, but her feelings were transmitted through her touch. He turned.

"We'll get her out of there," he said, trying to reassure her, but he could see the uncertainty in her eyes.

"There are only two of you," she said.

"There are three of us," Scotty snapped out.

"Sorry, Son," Jake responded. "You and Mom can't be part of this."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't concentrate on getting Rachel out of there if I have to think about you two, that's why. To me, you're all equally important." Making eye contact with Tiny, Jake continued, "And I can't have you be part of this either. You've done enough, Tiny. You saved my life and there's no way I can ask you to risk yours any further. I have to do this alone."

"That's crazy, Army. Scotty counted six of them, remember. Taking down six enemy combatants in a situation like this is impossible."

"That's why fighting them isn't the way to get Rachel out of there, not initially anyway." They were just turning onto MacArthur Boulevard and Jake said, "There's a park up ahead on the left. Pull over there." Tiny did as Jake instructed and pulled into the small parking area for Rockwood Park. Jake turned in his seat and said to Scotty, "The VFW hall is back the other way on this road. Do you think you could do a run-by and see if the two SUVs are there or anywhere close?"

Scotty looked at Lisa. She nodded yes, and so did he.

"One pass," said Jake. "If the two SUVs are not in the parking lot they could be staking it out nearby, but they'd have to be watching from the the side of the road. There's no place on that stretch where they could hide and you should be able to spot them if they're sitting there. Call me when you get to the other side. I need to know what I'm walking into."

"What are you planning, Army? We could do a drive-by to do that."

"No," Jake insisted. "No exposure. They have to feel that I'm completely alone." He turned to Scotty and said, "Ready Son?"

Scotty gave a nod and was out of the vehicle in a second. Unlike his earlier recon of Nazarov's house, there were street lights on MacArthur Boulevard and it took a while for him to be swallowed by the darkness. The VFW hall was about a half mile back up the road. For normal humans, that was probably a four-minute run. For Scotty, the way he was amped up, it was less than three and the ringtone on Jake's cell phone went off before any of them said another word.

Not even winded, Scotty said, "There are eight cars in the parking lot, Dad. Four of them are SUVs but I don't think they're the same ones that we saw earlier. And all of them are empty."

"Okay, Son. Good job. Stay where you are. Tiny will pick you up in a couple of minutes."

"Dad?"

"Yes, Son."

"Whatever you're planning, good luck with it, okay? I love you."

Jake choked up just hearing the words. "I love you too, Scotty. I'll see you on the flip side."

"Flip side?"

Jake smiled. "Just an old saying, Son. I'm trying to say that I'll see you on the other side of this. Wait for my call, okay?"

"Okay, Dad."

Jake ended the call and took a couple of deep breaths before stepping out of the Explorer. Now that the moment was upon him, he needed to control his anxiousness and indeed it was evaporating like alcohol. His focus sharpened. His senses were tuning themselves.

Jake said to Tiny, "Could you pick up Scotty on the other side of the VFW hall and stay with him and Lisa? I need you to make sure they stay safe."

"And what about you, Army? Who's gonna make sure you stay safe?"

Jake didn't answer the question. "Just let me off about a hundred yards this side of the hall," he said. He gave Lisa a kiss and said, "Take care of Scotty." He gave Tiny a look, nodded, and stepped out of the vehicle, leaving his AR-15 and the AK-47 Tiny had used on the seat behind him. Confronting Rachel's abductors with visible weapons would heighten their apprehension, and that could be dangerous for Rachel.

The Explorer burbled slowly up the road and Jake stepped toward the VFW parking lot. Step by step he crunched over the gravel on the side of the road, it being quite curvy at that point and just wide enough for two cars to pass. The VFW was located at a horseshoe bend in the road, and the glow from the single pole light and the sign on the face of the building seemed to bend around the curve along with the asphalt. The parking lot came into view and he stopped about thirty yards short to figure out how he was going to do this. Scotty was right. The SUVs in the parking lot were not the same ones that had pulled up in front of the house on Meetinghouse Road. He looked at his watch. It was five after midnight and the kidnappers were five minutes late. Probably trying to find the place, he figured.

Sucking up a noseful of humid air coming off the turbulent Potomac nearby, Jake decided to wait in the shadows on the far side of the building near the kitchen entrance. It would give him time to check them out for a few seconds before they acclimated to the situation. He checked his access to his M9 and his .45 pistols in case his plan didn't work. His eyes were keen, his hearing sharp, and any signs of his blackout seizures seemed nonexistent. The brain was an amazing organ, he thought to himself.

He positioned himself in a dark pool and watched the road. A few cars passed slowly and the noise of their tires faded quickly. Five more minutes went by and he felt a little tickle in his throat as he thought that perhaps they weren't going to show up. The buzz from one of the flickering fluorescent bulbs inside the VFW sign seemed to be getting louder by the second and it was starting to cut into him like a scalpel. Where were they? Was Rachel all right? Lisa must be going crazy, he thought. A pickup truck rumbled by and two seconds later Jake spotted the headlight beams from another vehicle before it came into view. It was an SUV, big and dark just like the ones on Meetinghouse Road. It slowed to a crawl and swung into the parking lot, making no attempt to find a parking spot. The message couldn't have been clearer: whoever was in there was waiting for him.

Jake stepped out of the shadows and stood at an angle so that the headlights wouldn't blind him. He could see dark shapes inside the vehicles, of which he counted four. None of them looked like Rachel. Previously, two SUVs had pulled up outside the house on Meetinghouse Road, carrying seven occupants according to Scotty, which meant that one of the SUVs was somewhere else. He waited. After about thirty seconds a door on the passenger side popped open and the man slowly made his way around the front fender. He paused for a second and took a look around. Apparently satisfied enough to continue, he stepped through the headlight beams toward Jake.

Jake kept his hands visible. He tried to discern the man's face, but the body was back lit and the features were shadowed and dark. The man continued to step forward and Jake slowly raised his hand to block the headlights and get a clearer view. He'd seen faces like that before, he thought to himself as the man came closer. "Where is Rachel?" he asked.

"She is nearby," the man said. "Where are the blueprints?"

"Nearby," Jake replied, jagging his head toward the entrance for no other reason than to throw the guy off and make him think the blueprints were close at hand. "You didn't think I was stupid enough to have them on me so you could kill me and my daughter both, did you? Who are you anyway? I'd like to know who I'm dealing with."

The man's face twisted ugly. "Why do you need to know?" he asked resentfully. "So you could inform your police friends of my identity?"

"I had nothing to do with those cars being in that driveway. I figure either you're being bugged or someone in your organization has loose lips and the cops knew you were going to be there." Jake's eyes did an up and down on the guy. Like himself, he didn't have an automatic weapon with him, but his belt buckle was tight while his trousers weren't. Weapon in the small of his back, Jake figured, which meant the guy didn't trust the situation. Getting a glimpse of the man's eyes through the piercing headlights, Jake knew instantly that was the case. The guy was thin and angular, and there was something vaguely familiar about the face. "What did you say your name was?"

"Look closely," the man said snidely. "I have a feeling it will come to you." He smiled a tight, thin-lipped little smile."

Jake drilled into him with a stare. Gaunt face, scruffy beard, he'd seen the eyes and the lips many times before. "You're Nazarov's brother," he realized suddenly. "You're supposed to be dead." The other thing he realized was that Nazarov had been playing him the whole time, and it was highly unlikely that Nazarov had wanted those blueprints to free his family members in Russia. Nazarov had been a terrorist, albeit a lousy one, cut from the same cloth as the man he was facing. "Your brother played it all wrong," said Jake.

"We all have our crosses to bear."

"Yeah, well, you won't have to bear that one any longer, _Husan."_ Jake remembered the brother's name from one of his conversations with Nazarov.

Husan's face became a mask. "We had our differences but he was my brother," he said bitterly as if he was there to avenge his Nazarov's death.

Infighting among the ranks, thought Jake. "And Rachel is my daughter. I need to see her."

"First the blueprints," said Husan.

"Nothing doing," Jake spat back. "As soon as you have those blueprints you'll kill us both. You're going to have to do this my way." Looking for some reaction, he thought he saw movement in the far shadows beyond the SUV. Maybe it was his imagination.

Husan raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Three men stepped out of the SUV, all of them showing automatic weapons. "I could kill you right here," he said calmly.

Jake lowered the hand he was using to block the shining headlights so that it was closer to the two pistols he was carrying. He determined quickly that him against three killers armed with automatic weapons would not be a good match. "You could," he responded. "And you'd never find those blueprints in a million years." He saw movement again in the far shadows and cursed inwardly. That had to be Tiny. He'd told Tiny to stay with Lisa and Scotty. What was he doing back there? "Tell your asshole friends to lower their weapons or this conversation is over," he demanded in as ballsy a manner as he could muster.

Husan signaled for them to do so and said, "I could also kill your daughter right here, right in front of your eyes."

Jake tried not to pay attention to that, knowing that Husan was just trying to scare him. Still, the comment had the desired effect. The challenge was making Husan think he was at a disadvantage. Life was cheap to men like him, not much more than a bargaining chip in situations like this. The only thing that mattered to such men was the advancement of their cause, and they themselves were perfectly willing to die to achieve it. As such, to Husan those blueprints mattered more than the lives of his hostages, the lives of his enemies, and the lives of his own comrades. Jake knew that if his bargaining chip was perceived to be worth more than Husan's, he was in control, regardless of the number of weapons he was looking at. Hence, as long as Husan believed he had those blueprints, there was a chance of saving Rachel.

"Bring me my daughter and I will lead you to the blueprints," said Jake—"the ones you wanted with the raised seal that proves their authenticity." He threw that in just to let Husan know he was dealing with the real thing. The ball was now in Husan's court, and in his mind Jake calculated his next step. Oddly, he figured it would be the same no matter what happened. If they brought Rachel to him, he'd have to somehow get her out of harm's way and take down Husan and his boys. He figured he could get off two shots before any of them could get their guns up, with Husan being the first to go. With him and another of their group dead, it was anyone's guess as to whether the other two would come after him, or bolt. If they came after him, he'd have no choice but to try and take them all out. On the other hand, if they didn't bring Rachel to him, he'd have to do the same thing. The odds were not in his favor, and they probably had orders to kill Rachel if the exchange went south.

Jake stood there, awash in the headlight beams, not moving a muscle. He went stone-cold silent as he waited to see what Husan was going to do. He didn't get a chance to find out as from his right three seemingly drunken old fools came staggering out of the VFW hall arm in arm, singing and carrying on in that way guys do when they've had one too many. Jake did a double take when he saw that Tiny was one of them.

" _From the halls of Montezuuu...ma, to the shores of Tripoli...."_ they sang.

"Hey guys, wait a minute. It'ss Jake." It was Tiny, and he was staggering and slurring his words like a drunken frat boy. "Hey Jake old buddy old pal, where you been, man? C'mon, less's go inside and get one more drinkie before lassst call. I'm buyin'." Tiny staggered over and put his arm around Jake. "Ssay, who's your friends, Jake? Bring 'em inside and I'll... _hiccup_... buy a round for them too." Tiny tried to reach out and grab the other two guys he came out with. "How 'bout 'chu, Ss...tan?"

"Not for me, Tiny. I gotta get home to the old lady."

It was Stan Grabowski. He was the VFW's treasurer, and Jake knew that Stan didn't drink. Stan had served as a gunner on an M1 Abrams tank crew during Desert Storm. He stumbled past Husan and Husan's SUV toward one of the cars parked in the lot. None of the automatic weapons were visible now, Jake noticed.

"What d'ya ssay, Cutter?" Tiny called to his other comrade.

That was Cutter Johansson. Cutter had served as a Navy Seal and was part of the team that took down Manuel Noriega.

"Same for me," said Cutter. "Gotta get to work in the morning." Like Stan, Cutter ambled past Husan, but on the opposite side. He stopped and turned when he was even with the SUV. "C'mon Tiny," he called. "I'll give you a ride home so you don't crash into a tree."

"Oh, oo...kay," said Tiny, "but I gotta piss first. All you nice people don' mind me, okay? I gotta water the grass." Tiny took his arm away from around Jake's shoulder, but not before giving it a good squeeze. "That okay with you, Jake?" he slurred, patting Jake right on the spot where his M9 Beretta was holstered.

Jake felt his heart beating in his chest. "Okay with me, Tiny. Go water the grass," he said, looking Tiny in the eye.

"You're the besst, Jake. I think the grass over there is very thirssty."

Jake looked straight ahead at Husan, noting that Husan was staring him down in return. Jake shrugged. "Chill out," he said, but Husan continued to scowl. All attention seemed to be on the three inebriated boobs crossing the parking lot.

" _From the halls of Montzuuu...ma,"_ Tiny began to sing again as he got about even with the SUV, and all of a sudden he screamed, "NOW!"

In a split second, Tiny, Stan, and Cutter drew weapons and trained them on the three men around the SUV before they could react. Two more guys from the VFW scurried up from the back shadows of the parking lot, also with guns drawn. One of Husan's men made the mistake of going for the weapon he'd laid on the seat of the SUV and a shot rang out. The guy went down immediately. In a split second, Jake pulled his M9 and rushed forward, slapping Husan across the face with it and sending him reeling to the ground. Jake was on him in a second. "Where's Rachel?" he growled as he shoved the nine millimeter into Husan's head until the skin broke and blood ran down the side of his head. He cocked the gun. "Where's Rachel?" he repeated. "I'm not going to ask again."

"If you shoot me, your daughter dies," Husan managed to say.

Jake put his knee in Husan's chest and his left hand around Husan's neck. Squeezing mightily, he looked up at the five VFW members who'd come out to help him, all former military men who'd seen combat and had stared death in the face. Two of them had pushed their captives to the ground and had a knee in their backs and a gun to their heads. The other three, including Tiny, were standing over the one who'd been shot while blood poured out of a hole in his collarbone. None of them seemed interested in stopping Jake and weren't about to get in his way. There were no doves out tonight, evidently.

Husan was starting to choke. Jake eased the pressure on the man's neck and put the pistol against Husan's crotch when suddenly he heard a siren blaring in the background. Just as suddenly from behind him he heard someone say, "Jake, get your ass outta here. We'll take care of these bastards." It was Frenchy, the bartender from inside. In an instant, he and two other guys took hold of Husan and dragged him back toward the hall. Husan didn't struggle much due to the right fist that put his lights out as soon as he'd gotten to his feet. "Jake, go!" Frenchy hollered as he opened the door. Two seconds later the door was closed and buttoned up tight and the VFW sign went dark.

"Jake, over here!" he heard Tiny call to him. "Give me a hand."

Tiny was in the process of dragging the wounded member of Husan's crew toward the SUV while Stan and Cutter collected the automatic rifles and violently shoved the other two into the back seat. Jake rushed over and they literally threw the wounded man into the cargo area. Jake slammed the tailgate while Tiny got behind the wheel. Seconds later they were calmly heading north on MacArthur Boulevard as a police car passed them going south.

Jake looked at Stan and Cutter, both of whom were squeezed in next to Husan's scumbags and aiming a gun at their faces. Neither one of them looked like they had any reservations about pulling the trigger if their guests tried anything, and from the look on the kidnappers' faces they knew it too. He looked at Tiny next and said, "I'm guessing you had something to do with this?"

Tiny said, "Did I forget to tell you that I called a couple of the boys and told them we were having company tonight? It must have slipped my mind."

Right, thought Jake as he looked straight ahead. Now what about Rachel?

* * * * *

Jake pulled his cell phone and called Lisa. "They didn't have Rachel," he said to her. The call went completely silent and he could feel the tension right through the phone.

"Where are you now?" Lisa finally asked.

"On MacArthur Boulevard just north of the VFW hall. We took down four of the six kidnappers, but I think she's still in one of the SUVs with the other two."

"Scotty wants to talk to you. Hold on."

It was Scotty. "Dad, I think I tracked Rachel's iPhone."

Jake nearly jumped out of his seat. "How the hell did you do that?"

"I downloaded an app. I think it worked."

It was doubtful that Rachel had her cell phone on her, but if one of the kidnappers had it.... "What's the location?" Jake asked.

"That's just it, Dad. The location keeps changing. Wherever that phone is, it's on the move."

"Let me talk to your mother." Lisa's voice came back on. "You're still in Tiny's Explorer, right?"

"Right."

"Then pick me up. We're going to get Rachel."

* * * * *

It was 12:45 a.m. and Tiny's Explorer came rumbling up the road toward them. Jake looked at Tiny first and then Stan and Cutter in the rear seats. "I owe you one, all of you. I don't know how I can ever repay you."

"Just go get your daughter," said Stan.

"Beer is on you next time," said Cutter.

Jake smiled and said, "You got it." He turned to Tiny. "There are no words," he said.

"Good, 'cause I'm tired and want to go home. Lisa is waiting, Jake. And so is Rachel."

Jake hopped out of the SUV and into the Explorer, having no idea where Tiny was going with the three kidnappers, nor did he care. He gave Lisa a kiss and turned to Scotty. "Is it still moving?"

"Hold on." Scotty's eyes were glued to the phone. "Oh-oh," he said.

"What is it?" Jake asked anxiously.

Eyes wide, Scotty looked up and said, "It looks like they're moving toward the river."

"Oh my God!" Lisa exclaimed.

Jake knew exactly what she was driving at. They were less than a mile from the Potomac where the river turned into a raging torrent, surging and crashing into massive, jagged rocks as it exploded through a narrow gorge in the landscape. Anything caught in those deadly waters would be thrashed beyond recognition and swallowed up by the furious current only to be spit out miles downstream. There would only be one reason why that SUV was heading there at this time of night, and it wasn't so the kidnappers could have a campout and tell ghost stories. They were headed for the park that accessed those waters.

Jake had been there multiple times with the family over the years, as it was a prime spot for hiking and biking along the trails and the towpath of the C & O Canal that ran along parallel to the river on the Maryland side. As such, he knew that MacArthur Boulevard turned into a curvy and narrow two-lane road that ended inside the park. With any luck—as strange as it sounded right now—Rachel was blindfolded and didn't know where she was headed.

"Go, now... floor it!" he commanded. Lisa didn't argue as she stepped on the accelerator and flung the rattling Explorer into the curves of MacArthur Boulevard. It swayed and fishtailed through the turns, and if there had been anyone coming the other way it would have been crunch time. They took the turn that led into the park known as Great Falls Park on the Virginia side and the C & O Canal National Historic Park on the Maryland side, with the lethal Potomac separating the two. A minute later they drove up on the kidnappers' other dark SUV that was parked off to the side of the road. The road itself had a thick chain strung across it and a sign that read _Park closes at dusk_. Huh, thought Jake, kidnapers that obeyed warning signs.

"Get out of the car and drop down low, now," he commanded further, and the three of them jumped out. Clutching his AR-15, Jake pulled and pushed Lisa and Scotty down into the slope at the side of the road. The element of surprise was already gone, and he didn't want to make it easy for the kidnappers to gun them down with a few bursts from their weapons if they were lurking nearby. Satisfied that they weren't targets, he looked at Lisa in the darkness and asked, "Do you still have your gun?" She nodded yes and he said, "Take it out, cock it, and if they come this way, _kill them_. Do you understand?" She nodded yes again, and he hoped she meant it.

He turned to Scotty and gave him his M9. "Same for you. Don't think for a minute they will hesitate to kill you if they come back here." With that, he gave Scotty a hug and put his hand on the back of his neck. "Take care of your mother." Jake turned again and gave Lisa a kiss. "I hope this isn't the last time I see you." She nodded, and he could see that she knew what he meant. Pulling his hat down, he took a low stance and dashed past the road-blocking chain. A second later he was swallowed by the night.

He stayed on the perimeter of the arrival area where hundreds of visitors came every week to hike, bike, or just spend a leisurely couple of hours in the natural surroundings of the C & O Canal towpath. The area was an open expanse that housed a visitor center and a tavern/museum, and despite his camouflaged attire he didn't want to risk easy detection by running across the open land in the muted light of the half-moon above. One strafe across that terrain might not be enough to kill him, but it could be enough to take him down and that would spell disaster for Rachel. He positioned himself inside the tree line at the edge of the open area and collapsed onto a carpet of decaying leaves wet from spring rains. Trying to concentrate on the noises of the night, all he could hear was the roaring Potomac just a stone's throw away. Something skittered on the leaves right in front of him and he could barely hear it, let alone see it. Moving out from the tree line and onto the turf of the open area, he cradled his AR-15 and did a military crawl to the edge of the building that was the visitor center. On the other side of it was the C & O Canal itself, as was the footbridge that enabled visitors to cross over the canal onto the canal towpath and the river beyond. That was the only route to access the rushing Potomac from this part of the park, and if the kidnappers were intent on making the river an accessory to murder, they'd have to come by this very spot to do it.

But what if he was too late, thought Jake. What if the kidnappers had already crossed the footbridge and were already on the other side of the canal? That meant they were on their way to the overlook that extended out directly over the Potomac. From there, they would do the unspeakable. There was no time to waste. Crouching and making himself as small a target as possible, he moved out from behind the visitor center building and stopped in his tracks when he saw flashlight beams bouncing off the black water of the canal. Caught in open ground now, he dropped down and brought his AR-15 to a shooting position, but he couldn't see well enough to fire. If he missed, he could hit Rachel. He laid there on his stomach, watching as the flashlight beams came toward him. His hunch had been right. The way the beams were hitting the water and skipping about, he knew they were looking for the footbridge over the canal.

Hoping the sound of the Potomac would cover any noise, Jake crawled backwards and positioned himself near the footbridge. Unless the flashlight beams landed directly on him, the kidnappers would have to be almost on top of him before they'd see him. Putting his AR-15 aside, he pulled his KA-BAR knife in one hand and his .45 in the other and waited. A flashlight beam swept the ground not two feet in front of him and swung off toward the footbridge, and one of the kidnappers said something he didn't understand. The other responded with something that sounded like _I told you so, stupid_ in any language, and they came closer, and then closer still until Jake could hear the scuffling of feet along the well-worn path. That's when he knew Rachel was fighting them, resisting with all her might, but a hundred-pound teenager was no match for them.

Her voice suddenly cut through the air when she screamed, "Let go of me, you jerk!" and it was followed immediately by a loud slap. Instantly infused with rage, Jake popped from his position and closed the ten yards between himself and the kidnappers in a second. Before they could focus their flashlights on him, he made a swipe with his KA-BAR and the warm spray of blood on his face told him he'd caused damage to one of them, but it was too dark for him to get a clear picture of just how much. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but the figures were still just shadows, only feet away. The immediate familiar bark of an AK-47 and the concurrent muzzle flash caused him to dive and roll to his left. Coming up firing, knowing from experience that most people are right handed, he squeezed off two rounds from his .45, putting them about a foot to the right of where the muzzle flashes had come from. The next thing he heard was the clatter of the AK-47 hitting the ground. Where was Rachel?

"Dad!" she screamed, and he heard a splash.

He turned toward it and two bullets ripped through him, one in his leg and one in his abdomen. He went down like a stone. "Rachel!" he screamed, and another shot rang out. The bullet thudded into the dirt in front of him but had enough energy that the ricochet pounded into his chest like the blow from a hammer. Barely able to turn toward the spot where the shot had come from, he emptied his magazine there and all went quiet except for the splashing sound coming from the canal. "Rachel!" he screamed again at the top of his lungs. He couldn't move. "Rachel! _Rachel!"_ he screamed over and over, but he couldn't push himself any closer to her. He strained to get up, but his leg collapsed under him and he knew it was broken. He tried to crawl but couldn't muster the strength. "Rachel!" he called again, but there was no response, no sound now, and he felt himself fading quickly. Salty tears mixed with the mud on his face. "Rachel," he called one last time as his blood poured out and mixed with the mud beneath him.

# Part Five

# Epilogue

Chapter 19... The Other Side

Wednesday, April 30th, 2:45 p.m. The first thing I heard was the reverberating hum of a machine somewhere nearby and it came in and out like waves on a beach. I listened to it for some time and then things went dark again until I thought I heard voices. The time between the humming and the voices could have been a minute or a year; I couldn't tell which. My senses started kicking in and it took me a while to figure out I was lying down even though it felt like I was flying. Or maybe the room was. I don't know. I touched my head to steady it and felt a bandage there, suddenly becoming cognizant of other bandages on my body. There was one on my leg, and one that went completely around my midsection, and my other leg was in some kind of sling and wrapped in a cast. I didn't remember how I got that way. I felt my eyelids sticking together and I thought maybe I had a role of quarters covering each eye. Finally, one of them popped open. A woman I didn't recognize was looking down at me and I speculated on whether I'd made it to heaven, or maybe it was hell.

"Let me help you with that," she said, and I wondered: help me with what? She tore open a small package and wiped my other eyelid until it too opened up. "How are you feeling, Mister Blackwell?"

I reflected on the question and didn't know how to answer it. "Water," I croaked, and she put a bendy straw up to my lips. The last thing I remembered was being shot at in the dark. The images that came to me were disturbingly real despite the fact that I figured I was now in a hospital. I strained to push those images out of my head, and when I did everything went dark again for a very, very long time.

* * * * *

"He's coming in and out, waking for a few minutes, and then slipping back into unconsciousness. He's in a very dangerous state. There's a chance he may slip into a coma again if the pressure on his brain doesn't diminish."

I heard that, so evidently I was in one of my waking moments. I thought I recognized the voice as that of my TBI neurologist, Doctor Kapoor. The next voice I heard was Lisa's.

"Will you have to operate again?" she asked.

"We might, depending on whether the fluid continues to accumulate, or not. We will be monitoring it closely," said Kapoor.

"Lisa," I called. "Lisa.... Lisa!" She came rushing over.

"Jake, darling. You're awake. Thank God," she cried as she held my hand.

I felt a couple of warm tears fall on my arm. "Rachel.... What happened to Rachel?"

"Rachel will be here later, sweetheart."

Kapoor came over and looked down at me. His face was really serious. "I'll be back in a while," he said, patting my arm. "You two have a lot to talk about."

Reacting to his tone, "What's he talking about?" I asked. "Where is Rachel? What happened to her?" Expecting to hear the worst, I felt myself choking with emotion.

"She's in school, Jake, and so is Scotty. It's the first day of school."

My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. "School?" I rasped. I tried to think of what day it was. "So soon? How.... What.... Is she all right?" She must be, I thought to myself. She's alive!

Lisa took my hand in both of hers and squeezed it. "I have something to tell you Jake. You've been here a while."

She wasn't exactly wearing a happy face. "What's a while?" I questioned, not sure now if I wanted to hear the answer.

She hesitated. "It's been four months, Jake. We didn't know if you were going to make it."

Four _months?_ Did that mean that I'd been in this condition the entire summer? But Rachel was alive. How did that happen? "That night," I said. "What happened?"

"You rest now," said Lisa, not answering my question. "We can talk about that later."

"No," I protested. My voice was weak and I looked at her pleadingly. "I've rested long enough."

She acquiesced and said, "You have to tell me if you start feeling weak, okay?"

I nodded, of course, but I couldn't have felt any weaker.

"That night, when you and Tiny took down the four kidnappers in the parking lot of the VFW—"

"It was more than just me and Tiny," I interrupted. "If it wasn't for the guys from the VFW—"

"Jake, that doesn't matter right now. What's important is that Tiny remembered that you had left that Detective Benke locked up in that secret room back at Meetinghouse Road. He went back and got Benke out of there. Then he turned over the three kidnappers so that Benke could arrest them."

"What about the fourth one, Husan? He was Nazarov's brother and he was the leader of the whole thing."

"Frenchy the bartender turned him over to the police when they got to the VFW hall."

I was listening, but I wasn't listening. My mind was on what had happened to Rachel. I didn't recall very much from the encounter at the C & O Canal, but I did recall the awful feeling inside me when I called out Rachel's name and she didn't respond. I would never have admitted it to anyone, but my brain had told me that Rachel had died that night. My heart, however, refused to accept it. From the look on Lisa's face as she was recapping the events for me, there was something she didn't want to tell me.

"What about Rachel?" I asked. "Was she hurt?"

"No, not physically," Lisa said solemnly.

"What does that mean?" I asked. "You're holding something back."

"I didn't want to discuss this with you until I was sure that you were going to be all right. The doctors say that emotional strain could cause a lot of stress, and—"

"Lisa," I said, squeezing her hand, "there's no greater stress on me than not knowing what happened to my daughter." The guilt was sticking in my throat like a bitter pill. "I feel responsible for what happened to her."

Lisa nodded and wiped her eyes. "Rachel has been affected by this, Jake—deeply. She's been having nightmares where she says she dies, and then she wakes up in a cold sweat. I'm wondering if she'll ever come out of this psychologically."

If there was anything I was familiar with it was the effects of PTSD, which is exactly what it sounded like. "Does she think she died that night at the canal?"

Lisa nodded again. "She's different now, Jake. She swears she went to the other side."

I've known plenty of soldiers who were wounded and had thought the same thing, and up to that point I'd never known what to think of it. Now, listening to Lisa describe how the trauma had affected Rachel, it was more and more real to me, it was as if I'd been through it as well.

"I'm so sorry, Lisa," I said, barely getting the words out. I felt tears running down the side of my face. "It's all my fault. I wish I could have taken her place."

Lisa straightened, an abrupt move, and I thought I'd said something to make her angry. "There's something about her nightmares you need to know, Jake."

"What?" I said, not daring to say more.

"She says she went to the other side with you, that you and she were walking toward the horizon together. Toward the dawn, she said, but you never made it. Rachel says that both of you died that night at the same time. Thank God for the two men that saved you both."

I closed my eyes and tried to recreate the scene in my head. I remembered her calling to me, and I remembered the splashing sound in the water of the canal, but the loudest sound I heard that night was the horrible silence when I'd called Rachel's name. I felt shaky and exhausted as I looked into Lisa's eyes. "Did I die that night?" I asked.

She nodded and said, "You both did."

"So how are we here? What happened?"

"You were under surveillance."

"Surveillance?"

"That's right. That night when that General McCloskey and that DIA Agent Forrester took the blueprints away from you? They knew you were going after those kidnappers to save Rachel no matter what happened to those blueprints."

"That's right," I said, realizing now what Lisa was implying. "They made no attempt to stop me. I think they even said good luck."

"And they knew that following you to get to those kidnappers would be the fastest way to find them. One of them, the DIA guy most likely, managed to put a miniature transmitter on your jacket before they left Meetinghouse Road with the blueprints. They had agents tracking you the whole time after that. It was them that pulled Rachel from the water and brought in a helicopter to get you and Rachel out of there."

"They used me," I said bitterly.

"And they saved you," Lisa countered. "Maybe it was them that brought you and Rachel back to life, or maybe it was God giving you both a second chance, I don't know, but we're not in the clear yet, Jake. Rachel has been going through therapy, and you've been in this hospital since that night in April."

So McCloskey and Forrester hadn't betrayed me after all, I thought. They were in a dirty business, for sure, and I guess the end justified the means, but I didn't feel good about being manipulated like that. In this case, it meant my daughter was still alive, however. "I'd like to see Rachel as soon as possible," I said to Lisa.

"I'll bring her to see you right after school."

* * * * *

I realized there was no sun in the sky, but the light was magnificent. How could there be light without sun, I wondered. I walked toward it thinking I could eventually reach its source, but I soon understood that even eternity wasn't enough time to accomplish that. It was nourishing me, and my strength grew in its presence, so I dared not shield myself from its powers by dwelling in the shadows. Then I saw that there were no shadows, that the light encompassed everything, and everything was reaching toward it and yearning for its sustenance. I reached toward it also, hoping it would guide me toward my destination. But I didn't know my destination and I felt myself searching, literally blind in the presence of the astounding light. Where was I? Where was I going?

"Jake?" I felt someone gently shaking my arm. "Jake, darling, it's me."

I woke with a start, feeling the instant heaviness of my own body. Somehow I was comforted by that, despite the fact I felt nowhere near as strong as I felt in the dream. It took me a moment to realize that it was Lisa talking to me. "I was in a dream," I said to her. "It felt so real."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't want to wake you but there's someone here to see you."

She stepped aside and Rachel took her place. "Rachel," I said, reaching up and trying to cradle her face with my hand. "I love you sweetheart."

"I love you too, Dad."

I could see that she was having a trouble dealing with me lying there like a bag of sand. Her skin was soft and white, but her eyes seemed to be set deeper in their sockets and darker than I remembered. "Mom tells me you're having a hard time of it," I said. "Is that true?"

She nodded ever so slightly and said, "Sometimes I have bad dreams, but don't worry about it, okay? I'll get over it."

"It's all my fault."

"Dad, don't talk like that. It's just something that happened, that's all."

Blurry-eyed, I said, "If only I had handled it a different way. I could have walked away from the whole thing and—"

"And what?" she said as she tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear. "Let a lot of innocent people die? I heard what they were planning to do once they got hold of those blueprints, Dad. They couldn't keep their mouths shut and they kept saying how they were going to do something the world would never recover from."

I didn't want to ask, but I had to know why my entire family had risked its collective life. "What did they say?" I asked as I tried to stay focused despite my haziness.

"They said they were going to sell the nuclear devices on the black market." It was a man's voice that answered the question, and it came from behind Rachel. She turned and took a step sideways as Hattie McCloskey stepped up to the side of the bed in street clothes. Tiny was right behind him.

Tiny said, "I hope you don't mind that I asked Hattie to come along, Army. I figured you two might have a lot to talk about."

"I understand you saved my daughter's life," I said to Hattie. "And mine too."

Hattie said, "It was Forrester's people, actually. I'm thankful it turned out the way it did... notwithstanding," he added, indicating the general surroundings of the hospital room. He put a fatherly arm around Rachel and went on, "It could have been much worse."

I debated whether or not to mention that manipulating me the way he did still angered me, but I figured there would be plenty of opportunity to do that some other time. I looked from face to face, realizing that everyone in that room had tried to save my life at one point or another. The gush of emotion within me must have been obvious and I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "So the terrorists had the fissionable material," I concluded, responding to Hattie's statement about selling nuclear devices on the black market.

"We still need to verify that," said Hattie, "but we've got intel on a possible storage site and we've got a Ranger battalion—your old outfit, actually—on standby to neutralize the site once we complete our analysis." Hattie smiled and added, "Maybe you'd like to lead the operation when the time comes."

I touched the bandage on my head and said, "I think I've got enough to worry about right now." I thought about what Hattie had just said. "From the way you're talking, such a raid could piss off a lot of people."

"Yeah, well, from what our intel is indicating this UIF group has a production facility set up to make one W54 device a week, and the going price was going to be five million per. Can you imagine what the world would be like if anyone who could pony up five million bucks could get hold of one of these devices? I don't even want to think about it, and we'd damned sure rather ask forgiveness than permission from anyone who might object to our putting a stop to the situation." Everyone was looking at Hattie and he said, "Sorry, I get wound up sometimes."

"One question," I said. "How did they get hold of those blueprints in the first place?"

"A most ignominious question," Hattie replied. "We haven't gotten to the bottom of that yet, but somehow we'll find out how that happened and those responsible will never see daylight again. It's a good thing you got involved with this. Without you, they might have actually pulled it off. You saved a lot of lives, Jake."

"Yeah, Dad, you're a hero," said Rachel.

"So are Tiny and Scotty," I said. "Where is Scotty, by the way?"

"He at football practice," Lisa replied. "He made the team, Jake."

"Scotty? Football?"

"Kicker," said Rachel. "He thinks he's all hot stuff now."

There was a light knock on the hospital room door and everyone turned to see Whitney Valentine standing there with a bunch of flowers in her hand. "Is it all right if I come in?" she asked meekly.

"I let her know you'd come to and I told her to come," said Tiny, looking at Lisa rather than me. "I hope that was all right."

Lisa walked over and gave Whitney a hug. "That was just fine, Tiny." She took the flowers and Whitney stepped up to the side of the bed.

"So when are you getting out of this place?" she asked. "I've got punch lists from two home inspections and a bathroom that needs a do-over before I can list the house. Do you think you could fit those jobs into your busy schedule, Mister Handyman?"

I managed a smile. "No problem," I said. "I'll get right on it." 
