The First Commandment: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My beautiful wife, Trish, made it clear that in this book I should thank my readers first. She’s right, of course (she’s always right, I’ve learned), but there’s part of me that wonders what kind of husband I would be if I didn’t thank her first. On more nights than I can count, Trish came home from her own demanding career only to gladly feed and bathe our little ones so I could keep on writing. Thank you, honey. I love you more than you will ever know.

  Having snuck in that thank-you to my wife, I want to now thank you, the readers. It has been a pleasure meeting you on tour and at book festivals and writing conferences across the country. It is because you recommend me to your friends, family, neighbors, and co-workers that my career is growing. I continue to be humbled and appreciative of your support.

  Without the fabulous bookstores and the Atria/Pocket sales staff, you wouldn’t be holding this in your hands right now. I am extremely grateful to all the people who have worked so hard to build me as an author and who strive to make every book bigger than the last. It is a team effort, and along with the Pocket/Atria art and production departments, I couldn’t hope to be aligned with more creative, intelligent, or nicer people in the publishing business.

  I dedicated this book to Scott F. Hill, Ph.D., for many reasons. His knowledge of the thriller genre is broader and deeper than that of any human being I have ever met. He continues to be an excellent sounding board and a great friend to brainstorm with. More than that, Scott is a model patriot who has dedicated his life to improving the lives of our veterans. People like him make me proud to call myself an American.

  I have a pool of gentlemen and one lady who have definitely been there, done that, and have the T-shirt to prove it. I like to refer to them as my sharpshooters, and they work hard to make sure I get things right. When I don’t, it’s my fault, not theirs. In no particular order, these exceptional patriots are Rodney Cox, Chuck Fretwell, Steve Hoffa, Chad Norberg, and Steven C. Bronson. To this list I am honored to also welcome and thank Cynthia Longo and Ronald Moore.

  My Sun Valley crew was right there with the latest in political and federal law enforcement issues. My sincere thanks, as always, go out to Gary Penrith, Frank Gallagher, Tom Baker, Daryl Mills, and Terry Mangan.

  Anyone who has been to the annual gathering in Sun Valley knows how much we all appreciate the folks at TASER International. In particular, I want to thank my good pal Steve Tuttle for all of his help with this book. All of the good guys who deploy with TASER products know how exceptional they are and that they absolutely save lives. Thanks, Steve.

  Ronaldo Palmera is a slime bag of the highest order who was based upon a real terrorist. In no way should he be confused with my delightful father-in-law, Ronald Palmer. Ron’s vast experience south of the border was the inspiration for all things Mexican in this novel, and his insight and guidance was, as always, very much appreciated.

  Patrick Doak and David Vennett have remained my steadfast guides through the wilds of Washington politics. I couldn’t write what I write without them and I wouldn’t have near as much fun when I visit D.C. Thank you, gentlemen.

  Bart Berry of Aquarius Training Systems can always come up with just the right thing to help me with my novel. He is both my cousin and climbing instructor, and while I didn’t need much climbing help with this book, like Ron, he also has significant experience south of the border, and I thank him for his input.

  As always, if it flies, eats sushi, or speaks German, I will absolutely not write about it without running it by Richard and Anne Levy, as well as our dear friend Alice.

  Tom and Geri Whowell once again provided invaluable assistance with my manuscript. From what I understand, “Scot Harvath” is now a password at both Fontana, Wisconsin’s Gordy’s Boat House bar and restaurant as well as the Cobalt boat dealership. How much of a discount it gets you, I have no idea, but I plan to find out this summer. I’ll know that I’ve really arrived when they decide to name a drink after me.

  Tom Gosse is one of the neatest people I know. As a funeral director, he provided me with some invaluable information for this book. His brother-in-law Patrick Ahern is a great friend, and I am sure the fact that I killed off Pat’s character in my first book but let Gosse live in this one will be a source of good-natured grief I will have to live with for some time.

  I have some other good friends who are out there kicking ass and taking hyphenated names on a daily basis. No matter where they are or what they are doing, they are willing to answer my questions. True to their reputations as “quiet professionals,” they asked that I not recognize them by name here. You all know who you are, and I thank you.

  I also need to thank Mark, Ellen, and everyone else at La Rue Tactical down in Texas for their kindness to me and their unwavering support of our elite warriors in the field.

  My two greatest assets, advocates, and allies are my magnificent agent, Heide Lange, and my superb editor, Emily Bestler. Their contributions to my career are immeasurable, and I know for a fact that neither of them will ever grasp how important they are to me. Thank you.

  Two more ladies in the pantheon of publishing who are invaluable to me are my publishers, Louise Burke and Judith Curr. It is through their tireless efforts that my career is where it is, and I thank them.

  Jack Romanos and Carolyn Reidy often operate behind the scenes without much thanks from their authors. Each year I learn a little bit more about the book business, and as I do, my appreciation for what they do, in particular for my career, grows. Thank you for everything.

  With the passing of James Brown, David Brown has inherited the mantle of the hardest-working man in show business. On the eighth day God created publicists, but they were not all created equal. David Brown was created head and shoulders above the rest. From the Top of the Rock to the Pig & Whistle, thanks for everything, David.

  Alex Canon, Laura Stern, and Sarah Branham continue to be incredibly helpful day in and day out. This small mention here hardly comes close to thanking them for everything they do for me.

  Ernest Hemingway once said that to be a good writer you need to be possessed of a shockproof bullshit detector. I think the same attribute is necessary for a good lawyer, especially one in Hollywood. I’m extremely fortunate in that I don’t have a good lawyer, I have a great one. Scott Schwimer is hands down the best entertainment attorney in the industry. He has also become one of my best friends, and for that I am doubly blessed.

  Reader’s Companion

  Please enjoy this Reader’s Companion of additional content, including a sample chapter from Brad Thor’s Black List.

  Emily Bestler Books/Atria

  Proudly Presents

  BLACK LIST

  BY

  BRAD THOR

  Turn the page for a preview of Black List …

  PROLOGUE

  PENTAGON CITY

  PRESENT DAY

  There were a lot of places in which Caroline Romero could envision being murdered—a dark alley, a parking lot, even a nature preserve—but a shopping mall in broad daylight wasn’t one of them. Especially not one just steps away from the Pentagon. Nevertheless, here she was.

  The team following her appeared to be made up of three men, one of whom she recognized, a tall man with almost translucent white skin and a head of thick, white hair. The trio took turns rotating in and out of view. There was no misconstruing their intention. The speed with which they had uncovered what she was up to and had locked onto her was astounding. As good as she was, they were better.

  It wasn’t a matter of simply being careful or of properly covering her tracks either. She had done all of that. The organization was just too big, too omnipresent to escape. Now it was coming after her.

  She needed to work fast. When the team moved in, there’d be nothing anyone could, or would, do to stop them. First they would interrogate her and then they would kill her. She couldn’t let them take her or what she was carrying.

  The mall was large, with lots of upscale sho
ps and closed-circuit cameras. They would be tapped into that system, watching her. She knew it because she had done it herself countless times. Knowing how they worked was the only thing that gave her an advantage.

  She walked with a moderate pace, purposeful, but not frightened. If they sensed any panic in her, they’d know she was on to them—they would close ranks immediately and snatch her. She couldn’t allow that to happen, not until she finished one last thing.

  All around her, shoppers ambled in and out of stores, woefully unaware of what was taking place in the world just outside. It was their world too, after all, and she wanted to shake them. She wanted to wake them up. She knew, though, that they’d only look at her like she was crazy. In fact, until very recently, she probably would have agreed with them. What she had discovered, though, was beyond crazy. It was insane; frighteningly insane.

  Her job had been pretty simple, with one primary directive: to tie up loose ends by clipping the loose threads. But along the way, she had committed a cardinal sin. Instead of clipping threads, she had begun to pull on one, and now she was about to pay the ultimate price.

  In the first store she entered, she paid cash and bought multiple items in order to hide what she was doing. She politely told the clerk that she didn’t need a receipt.

  Back out in the mall, she merged with the stream of people and tried to keep her anxiety under control. She took a deep breath through her nose and shoved the fear as far down as it would go. Only one more step, she told herself.

  Before that step, though, she needed to lay a little more cover. Paying cash again at two additional stores, she emerged toting two bags filled with nonessentials that would hopefully further mislead her pursuers. Her plan was to fill the figurative theater with so much smoke that no one would know where the fire was until it was too late.

  The last store was the most important. It was also the biggest roll of the dice. Everything depended on it, and if it didn’t go perfectly, her entire operation and everything she had risked would be for naught.

  Entering the lingerie store, Caroline scanned for cameras. There were three—two covered the store itself, a third was trained on the sales desk where the registers were.

  She moved casually from rack to rack examining items. As she moved, she looked to see if any of the men had followed her inside. She doubted it. While male customers might come in to buy items for their wives or girlfriends, they wouldn’t loiter. Nothing would grab unwanted attention faster than a man aimlessly hanging around a women’s lingerie store.

  The team following her seemed to have realized that and had stayed outside, exactly what she had prayed they would do. It was time to make her final move.

  With several items in hand, Caroline asked for access to a dressing room. As a clerk showed her into the dressing area, Caroline was relieved to see there were no cameras overhead.

  The clerk unlocked one of the rooms and Caroline entered. Setting her bags down as the door clicked shut behind her, she removed several items and quickly got to work. Time was of the essence. The organization following her didn’t like it when people fell into “shadows” and couldn’t be monitored.

  Cracking the dressing room door, Caroline extended a camisole and asked the clerk if she could bring her a larger size. When the clerk had walked back out onto the floor, Caroline closed the door and, keeping her voice as quiet as possible, recorded her transmission.

  Now came the difficult part—sending it. This was where she had decided to go as low-tech as possible. It was the only way it had any hope of sneaking by unnoticed. She prayed to God it would work.

  Exiting the dressing room, Caroline strode purposefully toward the sales desk, fighting to appear relaxed as she conducted her transaction. It took everything she had to maintain her smile and laugh with the chatty clerk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the white-haired man pass the store entrance.

  Once the purchase was complete, Caroline accepted the latest addition to her collection of shopping bags, squared her shoulders, and left the boutique. She had done it.

  As she stepped outside, her heart began to pound. There was nothing else for her to do, nowhere else for her to go. She knew how this had to

  end. Threading her way through the crowd of people heading toward one of the mall’s busiest exits, she spotted the row of glass doors and began to pick up her pace.

  The urge to run was overwhelming. She couldn’t fight it anymore. The team that was following her seemed to know exactly what she was thinking, because that’s when they struck.

  But they were already too late.

  CHAPTER 1

  RURAL VIRGINIA

  FRIDAY

  FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER

  Kurt Schroeder glanced down at his iPhone while his Nissan sub-compact crunched across the estate’s pebbled motor court. No signal. It was the same with his navigation system. He didn’t need to turn on his satellite radio, it wouldn’t have a signal either. Everything had been blacked out about a mile before the gates—just as it was supposed to be.

  None of the locals had ever made a connection between the signal loss and the fact that it only happened when the owners of the estate were in residence.

  Some blamed atmospheric conditions, while a few local conspiracy theorists pointed to the government as neighbors laughed them off. Little did those neighbors know how close to the truth the conspiracy theorists were.

  A company called Adaptive Technology Solutions had developed the signal blocking technology for the use of the U.S. military in Afghanistan and Iraq. ATS was one of the most successful American tech companies most people had never heard of.

  Practically an arm of, and indistinguishable from, the National Security Agency, ATS also conducted highly sensitive work for the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Department, the State Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Department of Homeland Security, the Treasury Department, the Department of Justice, and a host of other agencies, including the little-known United States Cyber Command—the group in charge of centralizing U.S. cyberspace operations.

  Whether via software, hardware, personnel, or training, there wasn’t a move the United States government made in relation to the Internet that didn’t somehow involve ATS.

  So intertwined was it with America’s political, military, and intelligence DNA, that it was hard to discern where Uncle Sam stopped and ATS began. Very little was known about the organization, which was exactly what ATS wanted. Had its board of directors ever been published, it would have read like a who’s who of D.C. power. In addition to two former intelligence chiefs, it included a former Vice President, three retired Federal judges, a former Attorney General, a former Secretary of State, a former Federal Reserve Chairman, two former Secretaries of the Treasury, three former Senators, and a former Secretary of Defense.

  Some believed that ATS was a front for the NSA, while others speculated that the CIA might have been involved in its creation. All, of course, pure speculation. Anyone who knew anything about ATS only really knew about that particular facet they were dealing with, and even then, they didn’t know much. The highly secretive company had worked for decades concealing its true breadth and scope. What was visible above the waterline was only the tip of the iceberg.

  The organization was also exceedingly careful about whom they brought inside. Nowhere was the selection process as rigorous as at ATS. Its members shared a very particular worldview, along with a deeply held belief that not only could they shape domestic and international events, it was their duty to do so. Their goals were not the kinds of things they wanted discussed in newspapers and on the Internet. They took great pride in their anonymity.

  The corporation’s retreat, with its sophisticated countersurveillance and anti-eavesdropping measures, sat on more than two hundred rural Virginia acres of rolling green countryside. It featured a clutch of buildings, the centerpiece of which was a large, redbrick neoclassical home
fronted by thick white columns.

  The estate had been named Walworth after the ruins of a small, walled farm at the south end of the property predating the Revolutionary War. Its ownership was hidden behind blind land trusts and offshore corporations. No records existed at the county recorder’s office, and no overhead imagery of the property could be accessed via satellite. For all intents and purposes, the estate didn’t even exist, which was exactly what the powerful forces behind Adaptive Technology Solutions wanted.

  Kurt Schroeder had been to Walworth a handful of times, having helped to oversee the installation of several of its computer and security upgrades. But he’d never been to the property for a gathering of the firm’s board of directors. He had only seen the full board together on one occasion, when he had been invited to accompany his boss to a winter board meeting at the ATS property on Grand Cayman.

  With its vast wealth, the company hierarchy never failed to do things first-class. The motor court of the Virginia estate looked like the parking lot of a luxury European car dealership, with multiple BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, and Range Rovers. Off to the side, the security teams had parked their armored, black Chevy Suburbans.

  Schroeder located an empty spot and parked. He looked into the mirror and dried the perspiration on his forehead. Tightening the knot in his tie, he took a deep breath. His boss, the man who ran ATS, was a lot like his deceased mother. Both had considerably volatile tempers.

  Schroeder climbed out of his unimpressive yet efficient Nissan and detected the scent of woodsmoke from one of the house’s many chimneys as he walked across the motor court. Martin Vignon, the head of corporate security, met him at the door. Like the rest of the team, Vignon wore a dark suit and had a Secret Service–style earpiece protruding from one ear. He was a tall man with impossibly pale skin and neatly combed white hair. Behind his back, the boss—who seemed to have a demeaning nickname for everyone—referred to Vignon as “Powder.” Whenever he threw the slur around, most of the employees uncomfortably laughed it off or pretended they hadn’t heard it.