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  “I think so, sir,” he said.

  “Jack, I’m not reading you in on what’s going on here, okay?”

  Kemper nodded.

  “But I want you to remember how it felt when you saw what I’m about to show you. And one day, when I reach out to you in the future, remember this feeling and know there is always, always a bigger fish to fry. Got it?”

  “Got it, sir,” Kemper replied, but he was almost certain that he did not.

  Jarvis climbed out of the truck, and Kemper followed him to a stucco building with a heavy iron door, sitting alone in the middle of a concertina-wire-topped square of twelve-foot fencing. He watched Jarvis press his palm to a black tablet beside the door, which turned green and lit up a red keyboard. Jarvis entered a series of numbers while Kemper forced himself to look away for some reason. A magnetic lock clicked open and the door hissed cool air, licking the dry heat from his face.

  Jarvis pulled the door open.

  There was no foyer, just a short, dark hallway ending in an elevator. Kemper stopped at the elevator and Jarvis punched in a new code, and a single door slid open. Inside the elevator car, the SEAL Captain pressed the lower of the two unmarked buttons. The elevator door slid shut and the car descended. Kemper had no idea how far, but based on the perceived speed and time that elapsed, it was no short distance. At the bottom, the door slid open, revealing what could easily be mistaken for the bullpen of a major metropolitan newspaper—numerous cubicles filled with men and women working at computers or talking across the thin dividers that separated them.

  “How are you, Captain Jarvis?” a woman asked from the closest cubicle.

  “Here to see your guy,” Jarvis said.

  “Yes, sir,” the woman said. “Mr. Reynolds said you’d be stopping by. Anything you need?”

  “No, thank you, Mary,” Jarvis said. As they walked around the cluster of cubicles, Jarvis said, “That was Mary Jones,” as if that would explain everything—and Kemper supposed it did explain a lot. No doubt everyone in this place was a Jones.

  Jarvis led him to another metal security door and entered yet another passcode.

  The door clicked and then hissed open, and he followed Jarvis inside.

  This hallway, or tunnel rather, felt completely different from the room they’d just left. For starters, it was constructed of stone and concrete. Not only was it dark, it was also wet, and the air had an unpleasant metallic odor. On both sides of the tunnel, small cells—for lack of a better term—had been carved into the rock itself, three to a side and covered with two-inch thick Plexiglas etched with holes, presumably for airflow. Kemper was reminded of the movie about the serial killer helping the female FBI agent. The first two cells on the right held sleeping prisoners in orange jumpsuits, but Jarvis passed them by, stopping and turning in front of the last cell on the left.

  Inside, a thin man sat cross-legged on the floor as if meditating, eyes closed and hands in his lap, but his lips moving, perhaps in prayer or perhaps something else. Kemper recognized the man immediately, despite the oily hair pasted to his forehead and the large bruises distorting one side of his face. Kemper’s pulse quickened and the world seemed to tilt, as if he’d just slid down a rabbit hole into a place more bizarre than Wonderland.

  “My God,” he breathed. “It’s really him.”

  “Yep,” Jarvis said simply.

  On the floor of the cavelike cell sat Abu Musab al-Zarqawi—the terrorist and jihadist who’d owned Ramadi. Killer of scores of Americans, responsible for the beheading of American journalist Nick Berg, and later that same year, American civilian Owen Armstrong, both of whom had died while Kemper fought with SEAL Team Eight. This man had been linked to more than seven hundred deaths during the initial invasion in 2003 and thousands more since. An evil sociopath, leading other evil sociopaths, and here he sat, in some super-secret dark hole not a half mile from the JSOC Tier One compound.

  “I thought he was killed in an air strike a few days after our operation against Bin Jabbar.”

  “Yes,” Jarvis said. He turned and held Kemper’s eyes. “Simpler that way, don’t you think?”

  Kemper shook his head, trying to shake off the eerie, otherworldly feeling that enveloped him. “I suppose so, sir,” he said.

  Just then, the terrorist’s eyes snapped open, like a vampire released from a trance, and Kemper felt himself start. The man held his eyes, a queer smile spreading over his face; it gave Kemper a shudder like he’d just been plunged into cold water.

  Jarvis gestured with his head, and Kemper followed him back up the hall, stopping just at the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Why . . . ?”

  Jarvis nodded. “Why show you? First, understand you will violate every law concerning access to classified materials you’ve ever signed and promised to protect if you share a word of this with anyone.”

  Kemper nodded. Who the fuck would even believe him?

  “I showed you this for two reasons, Jack. First, to show you that what we do at the Tier One matters. When we cap some shithead, or pull some HVT or material off the X, we don’t often get to fully know what fruits are born of our labor. I wanted you to know that there is, indeed, great fruit. Second, I want you to remember that there is always a bigger fish.”

  Jarvis held his eyes now, telling him something, but Kemper was unsure what.

  “Understood, sir,” he said anyway.

  “Jack, there are only a handful of men who can function in the world of the Tier One units,” Jarvis continued. “But far fewer still are prepared or qualified to take a trip down the bunny hole to the real heart of how we keep America safe. I showed you this because I believe, in time, you may well be such a man.”

  Kemper stared at his boss, at the legend who had awed him for years, and felt a new level of almost reverence embrace him.

  Kelso Jarvis is the fucking man.

  “I’m going to ask you to focus with full effort, beyond any distraction, on the task of being the best damn Tier One SEAL the unit has ever had. I have cleared the obstacles created by what happened in Ramadi for you, and I expect you to rise in leadership quickly in this unit. And one day”—he put a paternal hand on Kemper’s shoulder—“I may come to you and ask you to do even more.”

  Kemper nodded. The weight of what Jarvis had said felt real, but not oppressive, not a burden. It felt more like a privilege—perhaps even an honor. Kemper believed, deeply and with all his being, in the experiment of United States democracy and took seriously his promise to protect her and her citizens. What Jarvis was suggesting seemed like only the next natural extension of that promise.

  “I understand, sir,” he said, the gravity of the moment fully sunk in.

  “I know you do, son,” Jarvis said. Then he smiled. “Let’s get you to breakfast with your team. There’s work for them tonight. You’ll be in the TOC with me, like we agreed. There, you’ll study, learn, and absorb. And one day, a few years from now, I will come calling to collect on your promise.”

  Before Kemper could answer, the SEAL officer pulled open the heavy door and led him out of the dark, dank underbelly of the War on Terror.

  Kemper followed, tracing his fingertip along the serpentine scar that would forever decorate his left arm. Like all scars, it was a visible reminder of a painful event that could not be undone . . . a mistake he could not forget. His scar was born from hubris and passion, from courage and naïveté. And yet as much as he wanted to hate it, to hide the omnipresent reminder of his failure and shame, it also represented something else. Something transformational. In earning this scar, he had earned Captain Jarvis’s attention and respect. In earning this scar, he had gained a mentor and been invited to participate in a world previously hidden to him.

  His gaze went to the SEAL walking in front of him.

  Powerful words materialized in his mind: I will follow this man wherever he leads, carry whatever burden he asks, and when the day comes and he calls on me to repay my debt, I will answer the call . . . no m
atter the price.

  THE END

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  Collateral

  Book Six in the Tier One Series

  Collateral

  Book Six in the Tier One Series

  On sale September 1, 2020

  Preorder NOW

  Amazon: US UK CA AU DE FR ES IT NL JP BR MX IN

  Audible: US UK CA AU FR

  Chapter 1

  The Ferry House English Pub

  London, England

  September 14

  2147 Local Time

  John Dempsey ducked just before the bottle flying at him could slam into his temple. It sailed over his head instead and smashed into a life-sized ceramic English bulldog positioned just inside the pub’s entrance. The bottle, and the bulldog, shattered into a million comingled pieces. The barmaid behind the counter released an eardrum-piercing shriek—full of outrage and anguish at the loss of what must have been the pub’s mascot.

  “Get ooooout!” she screamed. “All of you brigands!”

  Nobody listened . . . except for the man Dempsey was there to kill. The Russian operative darted out the pub’s double doors, running like a man on fire.

  “The target has just left the building,” said a professorial voice through the wireless microtransmitter stuffed deep in Dempsey’s right ear canal. The voice belonged to Task Force Ember’s Signals Chief and Acting Director, Ian Baldwin, located in a Tactical Operations Center five time zones away.

  “I know,” Dempsey—a former Navy SEAL turned American assassin—said as he blocked a punch from a burly middle-aged local with his forearm. He was about to drive a hook into the guy’s jaw but decided the poor bloke didn’t deserve to spend the next six weeks drinking all his meals through a straw. So instead, he sent the tough-guy wannabe flying backward and onto his ass with a two-handed shove. He whirled toward the exit to pursue his quarry, only to find another angry brawler blocking his path.

  “Dude, where are you?” said another voice, this one belonging to former SEAL and combat surgeon Dan Munn, who was also sitting in the TOC in Florida. “He’s getting away.”

  “I know!” Dempsey growled, ducking a jab flying at his face.

  “Well, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Somehow Alpha has managed to get himself into a bar fight,” came a third voice, this one belonging to Elizabeth Grimes, Ember’s sniper in residence and overwatch for tonight’s assassination mission.

  “Of course he has,” Munn said, and Dempsey could practically hear him shaking his head. “Screw this. I say we have Lizzie shoot the target.”

  “No,” came Baldwin’s clipped reply. “The DNI was very specific about the approved lethal methods for this operation. No sniper action unless we can disappear the body without incident. Bravo, you are relegated to spotter and exfil activities only.”

  “Check,” Grimes said, acknowledging the directive.

  The chatter in Dempsey’s ear was beginning to piss him off, and so was the asshole in front of him trying to channel Rocky Balboa. The dude threw a gut punch, which Dempsey caught in a scissor block. The block made the brawler wince, but he was committed and drew back his other fist to try again. Dempsey didn’t give him that opportunity; he drove a knee into the man’s groin, buckling the wannabe boxer at the waist.

  “Behind you,” Grimes said in his ear.

  Dempsey dropped into a crouch and spun on the balls of his feet. A third dude, the bottle thrower, was charging with a fresh bottle raised overheard and primed to split open Dempsey’s skull. Dempsey grabbed him by the shirt, pivoted, and used the attacker’s momentum to send him flying into tough guy number two, who was still bent over, clutching his nuts. Both men crashed to the ground in a tangled heap of arms and legs amid a pile of overturned wooden chairs.

  Dempsey did a quick scan for the next threat, but there was nobody left standing in the tiny pub. For an instant, he locked eyes with the woman behind the bar. Thank God this was London and not Houston, or else he would be staring down the barrel of a Remington 870. As it was, the only targeting lasers fixed on him at the moment were the invisible ones streaming from her angry eyes.

  “Sorry about your bulldog,” he said with an Irish brogue as he turned to leave.

  “Get the fuck out,” she screamed as he barreled out the pub’s double doors and onto the street. “And never come back!”

  “Which way did he go?” Dempsey asked to the ether, scanning right, then left, for his target.

  “North on East Ferry Road,” Grimes answered.

  “Check,” he said and took off after the Russian spy. After one block, the ancient and uneven brick pavers underfoot transitioned to asphalt, improving Dempsey’s footing and letting him push to a full tilt. “How are your eyes, Omega?” he asked, noting the misty, overcast night sky.

  “We have the target on satellite thermal,” Baldwin said. “He has a two-block lead on you and is headed toward Mudchute Park.”

  “Is that the giant fucking goat farm?”

  “Yes, John,” Baldwin said, breaking OPSEC as usual. “Mudchute Park and Farm is the largest working farm in London. It’s heavily wooded and spans twelve hectares, so I suggest you hurry before you lose him.”

  “I know, I know. I’m running. I know you can see that,” Dempsey puffed.

  “Oh, we see you. Is that all you got, old man?” Munn chimed in.

  Dempsey didn’t answer, preferring to conserve precious oxygen. He hated this shit. Lately, it seemed like every op ended in a foot race—either with him chasing down some fleet-footed asshole, or with him running for his life while being shot at by Russians. Ember didn’t need operators; what it needed was Olympic middle-distance runners.

  I’m too fucking old for this shit, he thought as his quads began to burn.

  “Alpha, this is Bravo,” Grimes said in his ear. “I’m coming down. Gonna bring the car around to the east side and reposition on Stebondale Street. If our tango crosses Millwall Park playing fields, I’ll plink him with the long gun.”

  “I said no sniper action,” Baldwin said, his voice with an uncharacteristic hard edge. “Accidental death or poison—that was the OPORD.”

  “We tried poison and that didn’t work out so well,” Munn said. “So now it’s time to try accidental death.”

  “Enlighten me, Dan, if you will. How does a sniper round to the head qualify as accidental death?” Baldwin said.

  “It qualifies when the target accidentally walks into Lizzie’s bullet while it happens to be flying in the vicinity of his head,” the SEAL doc said, oozing with sarcasm.

  “OPSEC, people, OPSEC!” snapped an acerbic fourth voice on the line. “I’m good, but so is British Intelligence. GCHQ is listening.” The rebuke from Richard Wang, Ember’s cyber and IT expert, was as out of character as truth was from a politician.

  To Dempsey’s surprise, everybody shut up and locked it down.

  Thank God . . .

  He pulled up a mental image of the nearby greenspace complex, consisting of Millwall Park and Mudchute Farm. He didn’t have an eidetic memory, but he’d always had a knack for remembering topography and details from satellite imagery. As a SEAL with the Tier One back in the day, it had been his responsibility to plan the ops and know the terrain cold. Yes, they’d had GPS, Suunto watches, slick tablet computers, and eyes in the sky to monitor their position, but Dempsey knew better than to put all his faith in technology. Because unlike his teammates, technology seemed to have an annoying habit of letting him down when he needed it most.

  Mudchute Farm was a genuine anomaly; nothing of the sort existed in American cities. At thirty-two acres, it was huge and situated on the Isle of Dogs, a peninsula inside a buttonhook bow of the Thames in central London, where real estate was going at a premium. More than just a greenspace, the farm had a wooded perimeter, an equestrian center, and grazing pastures for cows, pigs, goats, sheep, and llama. The farm had caught Dempsey’s attention not only because of its size, but also because it was
the perfect place to disappear or wait in ambush.

  “Target is approaching the Chapel House Street intersection,” Baldwin reported. “And he just vectored east toward the park.”

  “Check,” Dempsey said.

  “And he appears to be opening the gap, Alpha. Can you possibly run any faster?”

  “If I . . . could run . . . any faster,” he said, his words punctuated by heavy exhales, “then I would . . . be.”

  “Target is crossing the northwest quadrant . . . heading for the woods and Mudchute Farm,” Munn said. “Bravo, where are you?”

  “Driving, but not in position yet,” Grimes said. “Ninety seconds.”

  “Shit, you’re gonna be too late,” Munn said, as if sniper action were still on the table.

  Arms pumping and legs churning, Dempsey crossed the Manchester Grove intersection. In another two hundred meters, he’d reach the park entrance. Two-story brown-brick row houses zipped past him as he sprinted up the middle of Ferry Road between twin columns of parked cars. As he ran, he noted how he could barely feel the formfitting body armor protecting his torso. This was his first time wearing the brand-new tech Baldwin had procured for all the SAD team members.

  Unlike traditional antiballistic Kevlar vests with heavy, rigid SAPI plates, this new vest was light and flexible. The puncture-resistant woven shell concealed a honeycomb interior filled with “liquid” body armor. Originally conceived at MIT and then refined by DARPA, liquid body armor—or shear-thickening fluid—was flexible and viscous in normal conditions but instantly hardened when struck by a projectile, deflecting and dispersing the impact force. He’d rolled his eyes and chuckled when Baldwin had presented him with the vest, but after unloading a thirty-round magazine of 5.56 at the range and finding it intact, his skepticism had melted away. Wearing it now, however, he couldn’t help but wonder what critical little piece of information Baldwin had “forgotten” to mention.

  He could almost hear the Signal Chief’s voice in his head.