As he shifted the gun to the twelve hundred yard target, he felt a buzzing in his pocket. Leaving his glasses behind was one thing, but every member of the team had to be on-call at all times. With a sigh of exasperation, he dug out his quantum smartphone and tapped the screen to accept the incoming call.
“Dae?” He was surprised to hear Anna Beck’s voice. She never made personal calls while on duty. Her role as head of Endgame security kept her too busy for idle conversation, and besides, she knew as well as anyone that the Q-phones were not to be used for anything but team business. When she continued, there was no mistaking the note of concern in her voice. “You need to come back right now.”
Knight felt a chill pass through him. “What’s wrong?”
“Dr. Friedmann just called. Grandma Knight… I’m so sorry.”
11
Washington, D.C.
Colin Parrish gazed up at the uniformed doorman for several seconds, appraising him with a cool stare. At just slightly over five feet tall, Parrish often looked up at people, but he was never intimidated. “I’m supposed to meet someone.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” The doorman did not sound the least bit apologetic, and he spoke the last word with palpable contempt. “The club has a strict dress code. At the very least you need to be wearing a jacket and tie.”
Parrish ran a thumb along the lapel of his weathered brown leather bomber jacket.
“Not that kind of jacket,” the doorman clarified.
Parrish looked past him, first at the dark glass pane in the elegant wood and brass door, and then into the lens of the inconspicuously mounted security camera. Finally, he returned his stare to the doorman and shrugged. “Oh, well.”
He was halfway down the block when he heard the sound of rapid footsteps. “Sir, wait.”
The doorman jogged past him and turned, blocking his path but with hands outstretched, palms up, as if beseeching Parrish for a benediction. The change in the man’s demeanor was like night and day. “Sir, forgive me. I didn’t… If you’ll just follow me, I’ll show you inside.”
Parrish suppressed a smile, maintaining his indifferent expression. “Thank you.”
He was led through the main entrance into a richly appointed foyer, where a maître d’ was waiting to usher him into the lounge. Parrish ignored the shocked looks of the handful of patrons. Their disdain meant exactly nothing to him, though he found their sense of superiority amusing. A few seconds later, he found himself in a small private room, decorated in the same elegant style, all red velvet and hardwoods. There was a single table in the room, and seated at it was the man who had asked to meet with him. Parrish strode to the table and took a seat opposite him.
The man, who was nursing an amber-colored beverage in a tumbler, gave him the same haughty look as the people in the lounge. “Are you...” He paused and wrinkled his nose distastefully. “Bulldog?”
Parrish leaned forward, smiling like a used-car salesman, and offered his hand. “Senator Marrs. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Marrs stared at the proffered hand, clearly signaling that he had no intention of taking it, but Parrish did not draw back. Instead, he maintained his pose, statue still, until Marrs admitted defeat and gave him a quick limp clasp. “Let’s get on with it. I’m told that you’re someone who can, how shall I say it, take care of unpleasant business?”
Parrish glanced around the room. “Where’d the waiter go? I’d like a drink.”
“You’re not here for a drink,” Marrs snapped.
Parrish brought his gaze back to Marrs. “I’ve read a lot about you, Senator. You’re a very powerful man, accustomed to getting your way. You know exactly what you want, and you don’t let anything stand in your way.”
“That’s right.” Marrs’s arrogant expression remained unchanged, but he seemed pleased at the characterization.
“And you’re smart, too,” Parrish went on, “Which is why I’m sure that you’ll have figured out by now that the only way to get what you want from me, is to stop acting like an asshole.”
The senator’s face went beet red. “I will not stand for—”
Parrish calmly pushed his chair back and started to rise.
“Wait.” With a visible effort, Marrs brought his ire under control. “You’re a tough customer. I’ll give you that.”
Parrish settled back into the chair and folded his hands on the table, but said nothing until a waiter appeared and asked for his drink preference. “A glass of water, please. No ice.”
“Water?” Marrs said, but then quickly shook his head. “Get the man some water, for Christ’s sake.”
Parrish waited until the waiter was gone then said, “Tsk, tsk, Senator. What would your constituents say?”
“Fuck them. And fuck you, too. Are we going to talk business or not?”
Parrish placed his hands on the table, palms down, as if he was about to push himself away. “I know that it’s important for you to be the alpha dog here, Senator, but your posturing is wasted on me. This little bit of theater has not brought you any closer to getting what you want, so why do you persist in it?”
“Fine. Let’s talk about what I want.”
“Let’s.”
Marrs grabbed his tumbler and drained the contents in a single gulp before lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I need you to find somebody for me. Several somebodies, actually. And I need you to—”
“Senator, let’s save some time and dispense with the cloak and dagger routine. Just say what you mean.”
Marrs brought the glass down with a bang like a judge’s gavel. “All right. Here it is. There’s a guy in Mexico. A cartel guy. And I owe him a favor.”
Parrish made a rolling gesture. “Better.”
“His operation was attacked by a rogue outfit. I’m not sure who they are, but I think someone in the government is backing them. I want you to find out who they are, and then I want you to…” He glanced around the room as if only now fearful of being overheard, then lowered his voice. “I want you to deliver them to him. Is that something you can do?”
The waiter returned with a glass of water and another drink for Marrs. When he was gone again, Parrish gave his answer. “In very broad terms, yes, that is something I can do. But understand that to fulfill a request like this expediently, I will need your full cooperation.”
“I can pay you whatever you want.”
“I’m not talking about money. Money is overrated. What I will need, money can’t buy.” He chuckled. “Well, I suppose that’s not strictly true, is it? It bought you, didn’t it?”
Marrs reddened again. “What do you want?”
“Access.”
“To what?”
“Anything and everything. If, as you say, this rogue element has backing from someone in a position of authority, the only way I’m going to be able to root them out is with full access to classified information.”
Marrs’s forehead creased in a frown.
“I’m guessing that what you really want is deniability,” Parrish went on. “You could find these people yourself, but the rest? How did you put it? Delivering them? That’s what you really need me for.”
Marrs relented, nodding. “Fine. Whatever you need. Just be discreet.”
“That goes without saying.” Parrish picked up his water glass and took a sip. “So, let’s get started, shall we? Tell me everything you know about this rogue operation.”
12
Endgame, New Hampshire
King stared at the mirror, looking for some trace of himself in the reflection. Over the course of his very long life, he had fought countless battles and worn a dizzying array of uniforms and every type of battle armor imaginable. He had even fought stark naked once or twice. Never, in all that time, had he felt quite so exposed, so vulnerable, so unlike himself, as he did now.
“You look fantastic,” Sara Fogg remarked, standing beside him. “It’s perfect.”
King met her eyes in the reflection an
d gave a half-hearted smile. “I look like a butler.”
From the doorway, his adopted daughter Fiona gave a low whistle. “You look like Prince Charming, Dad. Gonna take the car and make a run to the Snack Shack, ‘kay?” She disappeared without waiting for an answer.
“Prince Charming.” King rolled his eyes. “At last, all my dreams have come true, and now I can die.”
Sara gave him a sideways hug. “Don’t worry. You can survive this.”
“It’s really not fair that you get to see me all dressed up like this, but I don’t get to preview you.”
“You know the rule. You don’t get to see me in my dress until the wedding day.”
“I’m more interested in seeing you out of it.”
She slugged him playfully. “That’s exactly why it’s best to leave the planning to the woman. Men only have one thing on their minds.” She made a circuit around him, smoothing wrinkles in the tuxedo jacket and straightening his bow tie. “Okay. Let’s get this thing off you.”
He gave his best lascivious grin. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Her wink was very encouraging. “How’s the leg?”
“It was just a scratch. Almost healed already.” In truth, the three-inch-long gash he’d received from one of the crazed boars had cut deeply, requiring twenty stitches and a heavy duty antibiotic injection. The treatment had been administered during their homeward journey aboard Crescent II, by Queen, who had seemed to enjoy poking needles in him just a little too much. The leg was still sore, and he favored it when he moved to avoid reopening the wound, but he was a quick healer—a family trait. He knew in another day or so, he would be able to remove the stitches and walk normally.
“Well, take it easy anyway. Especially tonight.” She loosened his bow tie. “Any idea what Rook has planned for you?”
“Knowing Rook, it will probably involve beer, barbecue and various displays of manliness. We’re not leaving the grounds, though. Pinckney isn’t exactly brimming with nightlife.”
“You’re telling me. Still, I’m glad we’re having the wedding here. It’s a beautiful place.”
King studied her face, looking for any indication of insincerity, but saw none. The Pinckney Bible Conference Grounds was a remote private park, which unbeknownst to the evangelical organization that owned and operated the rustic campground, concealed the entrance to the sprawling underground complex that had once been Manifold Alpha. The vast laboratory had been built by insane geneticist Richard Ridley, and was now Endgame’s headquarters. It had been Sara’s idea to have the ceremony outside in the campground, but he was worried that the suggestion might have been made solely for his benefit. The extreme secrecy that surrounded Chess Team’s operations and personnel, to say nothing of the fact that Deep Blue—or rather, former President Tom Duncan—could not exactly move about freely in public, meant that a very private ceremony was best for King.
But was it what Sara really wanted? Had she dreamed of a fairy tale wedding in a big church, surrounded by friends? The fact that he didn’t know troubled him, but theirs had not been a typical romance and courtship. As an infectious disease investigator for the CDC, she was gone as often as he was. Their life, such as it was, amounted to stolen weekends together, either at Sara’s seldom-used apartment in Atlanta, at King’s house in Richmond or in a hotel room wherever their paths crossed. Marriage would likely not change that. They would be joined, their commitment to each other formalized, but getting to truly know one another might take the rest of their lives.
“Actually,” she went on, “it’s those displays of manliness that have me worried. A game of horseshoes is one thing, but you’ve got to promise me, no Indian wrestling.”
“Scout’s honor. I will be a spectator only.”
“Will Knight be there?”
King didn’t know the answer to that question. He had only just heard the news about Knight’s grandmother. Her passing had come as a surprise to no one, least of all to Knight, but it was one more blow in what had been a very rough year. “I hope so. He could use a distraction.”
She slid the jacket from his shoulders. “It’s not always that easy, you know.”
King did know. He had endured his own share of losses. Even after uncounted years, he still felt a measure of grief for his sister, Julie, who had inspired him both with her life and her death in a fighter jet training accident. He was reminded of her every time he saw his childhood friend George Pierce, who had been engaged to marry Julie. “That reminds me,” he said, not explaining the apparent non sequitur. “I’ve got to pick George up at the airport.”
“You should take Fi. I’m sure she can’t wait to show Uncle George her brand new driver’s license.”
“Not much chance of getting the keys away from her,” he said with a nod and a grin. It was still a mystery to him how little Fiona had grown up so quickly. How old had she been when she had come into his life? Twelve? Now she was seventeen, an energetic, intelligent, attractive—maybe too attractive—young woman, eager to assert her independence and take on the world. “But she’s gone now. I figure we’ve got…twenty minutes?” He glanced at the stainless-steel Omega Speedmaster Professional chronometer on his left wrist. “So if you’ll help me get the rest of this monkey suit off—”
He was interrupted by the familiar but ominous notes of the Jaws movie score. The ringtone on Sara’s phone. She uttered a low growl but then answered in her most professional voice. “Sara Fogg, here.”
As she listened, the look of irritation gave way to disappointment and then morphed into real concern. “Understood. Send a plane.” She glanced over to King. “George is coming into Logan, right?”
He nodded.
“Send the plane to Logan. I’ll be there in two hours.”
King waited until she ended the call to speak. He had been worried about the mission in Mexico spilling over into several days and encroaching on their big day, to say nothing of the possibility of sustaining a real injury. The last thing he had expected was for Sara’s work to get in the way. “What’s up?”
“Maybe nothing. A weird case in North Carolina. Might not be an outbreak, but the local docs are spooked.” She tried for a wan smile. “Should just be an overnight thing. Show up, advise routine precautions and head home.”
“And you’re the only one who can do that? Doesn’t the CDC have other disease detectives?”
“None with my experience.” King waited for her to elaborate, but instead she said, “Don’t worry. The wedding isn’t for three more days. There’s plenty of time.”
“Did I ever tell you about a little thing we have in the military called Murphy’s Law?”
“Too many times. Call Fi. Tell her to get back here ASAP. I have to pack.”
13
Washington, D.C.
Despite his short stature, broad powerful build and pugnacious manner, Colin Parrish’s nickname—which he had adopted as both nom de guerre and job description—had nothing at all to do with his physical appearance. In another life, when he had served in the United States Army Criminal Investigations Division, a superior officer had called him ‘Bulldog’ for the way he would seize onto a lead and drag it to the ground. It was a trait that had served him well, first as a law enforcement officer and subsequently as a private contractor.
Bulldog seemed an appropriate name for what he did. He was more than just a private investigator, more than just a mercenary and a fixer. He was whatever the situation demanded. The only limit to what he could do was his level of interest. The more challenging a situation was, the more interested he became. When he sank his teeth into the mystery of Senator Marrs’s rogue operators, he immediately sensed a diversion worthy of his time, but to run this lead down, he would need to be more bloodhound than bulldog.
Identifying ‘the cartel guy’ had been fairly easy, even without Marrs’s description. The capture of Juan Beltran—the notorious Mano—had already hit the cable news outlets. His older brother, Hector, was almost certainly
the mysterious Mr. Bell, the true leader of the El Sol cartel. That information would prove useful for the delivery phase.
The one clue that Marrs had given him—the stealth plane—had been more than enough to get the ball rolling. Half an hour of Internet searching turned up a series of UFO sightings going back several months. One from Belgium was particularly interesting, but to pursue it fully, he would require the kind of access that only Marrs could provide. Using a disposable cell phone, he called the senator.
Marrs answered quickly, speaking in a low voice. “Dammit, not now,” he said, and then hung up immediately.
Parrish calmly hit ‘redial.’
Marrs picked up even quicker. “I told—”
“That was your only freebie, Senator. If you hang up, our arrangement will be concluded.”
Marrs whispered a string of profanity, then Parrish heard him speaking to someone else, asking to be excused. When he spoke into the phone again, he was breathless and hurried. “This better be good. You can’t just interrupt me any time you like.”
“I can and will, if necessary,” Parrish replied. “That was our deal, as you’ll recall.”
“What do you want?”
“About six months ago, NATO air defenses in Europe reported an anomalous supersonic contact. There was no accompanying radar signature, so fighter jets were scrambled to intercept and investigate, but just a few minutes later, the planes were recalled. All forces were instructed to stand down. That would suggest that a senior NATO member nation was conducting a clandestine operation using a stealth aircraft and did not want it to be compromised.”
“A stealth plane,” Marrs murmured. “All right, you have my attention. Is it the plane we’re looking for?”
“At the same time that was happening,” Parrish continued, “there was a very curious incident near Brussels. Police responded to a break-in at the Royal Museum for Central Africa, where they found dead security guards and a lot of property damage. Eyewitness reports from the area also mention an unidentified aircraft in the sky above the museum. The official reports don’t mention the aircraft, but European UFO enthusiasts were all over it.”
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