Endangered Species: A Sleeping Dogs Thriller

By John Wayne Falbey

The world is descending into chaos. America is like a rudderless ship—its elected government gridlocked and ineffective. Its unprotected borders are penetrated daily by agents of its worst enemies, drug cartels dispersing crime and addiction in its cities, and illegals carrying a variety of diseases. Unchecked deadly plagues are spreading globally. Rogue governments spit on Old Glory and defy a weakened America to stop them. Religious fanatics are dedicated to butchering all the world’s citizens who don’t convert to their beliefs. The future of America and the nations of the free world seems grim. And the worst is yet to come. A group of international power brokers, the Alliance for Global Unity, is close to achieving their goal—a single world government with them ruling it. From Russian aggression to worldwide jihadism, from China’s intention to make Southeast Asia its personal domain to a morally and financially bankrupt European Union, from violent and expanding drug cartels to Iranian nuclear designs, the AGU is close to achieving its goal.
But appearances can be deceiving. Behind the scenes, a shadow government of old fashioned patriots known as the Society of Adam Smith is working to change the course of events. Led by Cliff Levell, a former Marine and ex-CIA operative, and armed with deep financial resources and critical positions in the military and intelligence communities, the SAS just might succeed. The key to their success is the world’s deadliest hunter-killer special ops unit—the Sleeping Dogs. But keeping the six Sleeping Dogs alive is challenging. There is an outstanding Presidential Decision Directive that ordered the men to be terminated with extreme prejudice. An angry FBI agent, believing his wife had an affair with the unit’s leader Brendan Whelan, is pursuing Whelan with homicide on his mind. A rogue Russian agent seeks revenge against the leaders of SAS for thwarting his assignment to assassinate the president of the United States. And, most chillingly, a huge and mysterious brute named Maksym is systematically hunting down the Dogs individually. The fate of the free world hangs in the balance. There will be blood. Lots of blood.
Book 2 in the Sleeping Dogs trilogy takes the reader all over the globe as Whelan and the Dogs fight to stop a power-mad cartel. The Dogs are back; expect a high body count!

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Wayne Falbey
• Release date: Feb 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9780985518752

John Wayne Falbey

John Wayne Falbey writes thrillers involving international espionage and geopolitical intrigue. His debut novel, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, has been endorsed by Compulsory Reads and became an internationally bestselling thriller. There now are eight books in the Sleeping Dogs series about a ruthless, patriotic black ops unit hunting and eliminating America's enemies. His latest novel in the Sleeping Dog series is Spare Me, Kill the Rest. He currently is working on the ninth book in the series. He also is the author of The Quixotics, an action-adventure tale of gunrunning, guerrilla warfare, and treachery in the Caribbean, and The Taxman Cometh, a story about a rogue IRS agent who tries to frame a former special ops warrior for murder.The writers currently at the top of his reading list include Brad Thor, Alex Berenson, Lee Child, Ben Coes, Brad Taylor, Robert Crais, John Sandford, and David Baldacci.A native Floridian and former transactional attorney, Falbey lives in Southwest Florida. He invites you to visit him at www.falbeybooks.com.

Book preview

—DEDICATION—

No man is an island...

—John Donne

The fifteenth century English poet nailed it. No one, no matter how independent-minded, is truly alone. Someone can be self-absorbed, but regardless how self-sufficient a person may believe they are, there is a whole world out there constantly spinning around them. As an only child, I liked to believe in my completeness and independence from that world. But I was wrong. My world is full and rich, made more so by the presence of one very special person—Annie. She’s my Muse, my greatest source of encouragement, and the love of my life. Thanks, Sweetheart; this one’s for you.

ENDANGERED SPECIES

Table of Contents

DEDICATION

For Those Who Came Late…

Cast of Characters

Chapter 1— Dingle, Ireland

Chapter 2—Albuquerque, New Mexico

Chapter 3— Dingle, Ireland

Chapter 4—Albuquerque, New Mexico

Chapter 5—Dingle, Ireland

Chapter 6—Tidewater Virginia

Chapter 7— Dingle, Ireland

Chapter 8—Albuquerque, New Mexico

Chapter 9—Naples, Florida

Chapter 10—Albuquerque, New Mexico

Chapter 11—The Kremlin, Moscow

Chapter 12—New York City

Chapter 13—Kiev

Chapter 14—Dingle, Ireland

Chapter 15—Las Vegas, Nevada

Chapter 16—Moscow

Chapter 17—Dingle, Ireland

Chapter 18—Bonita Springs, Florida

Chapter 19—New York City

Chapter 20—Georgetown

Chapter 21—New York City

Chapter 22—Sedona, Arizona

Chapter 23—Iceland

Chapter 24—Tidewater Virginia

Chapter 25—Shannon, Ireland

Chapter 26—Moscow

Chapter 27—Zurich

Chapter 28—Dingle, Ireland

Chapter 29—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 30—Mosul, Iraq

Chapter 31—Dingle, Ireland

Chapter 32—Tehran

Chapter 33—Western Montana

Chapter 34—Dubai

Chapter 35—Dubai

Chapter 36—Dubai

Chapter 37—Dubai

Chapter 38—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 39—Dubai

Chapter 40—Dublin

Chapter 41—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 42—Mosul, Iraq

Chapter 43—London

Chapter 44—Moscow

Chapter 45—Chevy Chase, Maryland

Chapter 46—Malta

Chapter 47—Malta

Chapter 48—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 49—Hong Kong

Chapter 50—Rome

Chapter 51—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 52—Rome

Chapter 53—New York City

Chapter 54—Rome

Chapter 55—Moscow

Chapter 56—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 57—Nuevo Laredo, Mexico

Chapter 58—Geneva, Switzerland

Chapter 59—Georgetown

A Note From The Author

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For Those Who Came Late…

This is the second novel in the Sleeping Dogs series of political thrillers. The following is a brief summary of the action in the first book in the series, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening—

The President of the United States has been targeted for assassination—by his own handlers. The killing must look as if the president’s political opposition is responsible. Desperate to prevent the crime and prevent the overwhelming outpouring of sympathy that will only further empower the real killers, the opposition turns to the only force that can stop it this late in the game—a mysterious hunter-killer team known only as the Sleeping Dogs. This blackest of black ops units was formed to carry out America’s wettest, most politically incorrect missions abroad. Eventually, a U.S. President, fearing discovery of the unit’s existence could spark an international crisis, ordered its members terminated with extreme prejudice. They escaped by faking their deaths in a plane crash, and went underground. Now, 20 years later, they are asked to leave the safety of their anonymity and risk their lives for their country one more time.

A seemingly unconnected car crash rapidly escalates into a series of plot twists and a rising body count involving Russian agents, crooked politicians, Ukrainian gangsters, a billionaire international arbitrageur, a secret society of patriots in the military and intelligence communities, the CIA, a doggedly determined FBI agent, and the six deadliest men on earth—the surviving Sleeping Dogs. The body count begins to soar from the first chapter, as Brendan Whelan and the other Dogs relentlessly pursue the would-be assassins and their handlers. As they do, they begin to uncover, layer by layer, a plot to bring America to her knees and impose a one-world government on the planet. The enemy is powerful, with access to unlimited funds and the ability to manipulate the rogue nations of the world. The one thing the enemy doesn’t have is the Sleeping Dogs.

Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening is a techno-political spy thriller. It combines relentless action, crisp dialogue, fully drawn characters, and thought provoking plot twists. Squarely on the same page with David Baldacci, Brad Thor, Lee Child and other best-selling thriller writers.

Endangered Species: A Sleeping Dogs Thriller

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Brendan Whelan – an innkeeper in Dingle, Ireland, and leader of the deadly hunter-killer special ops unit known as the Sleeping Dogs

Caitlin Whelan – Brendan’s wife and partner

Cliff Levell – former Marine and CIA operative now leader of the Society of Adam Smith (SAS), a shadow government attempting to counter the elected government’s destruction of American values and freedoms. He’s confined to a wheelchair because of injuries incurred in an automobile accident

Mitch Christie – an agent of the FBI pursuing Whelan and the other Dogs

Harland Fairchilde IV – a fourth generation scion of an über wealthy family and leader of the Alliance for Global Unity (AGU), a global organization of financiers and government officials seeking to impose a one-world structure on mankind

Maksym Kozak – a ruthless killer and genetic freak who works for the highest bidder

Kirill Federov – a former Spetsnaz (Russian special ops) colonel serving in the SVR, Russia’s external intelligence agency

The Sleeping Dogs (together with Brendan Whelan, the deadliest hunter-killer special ops unit in history; genetically evolved—Mother Nature’s beta models for humans in future generations):

Sven Larsen – the most physically powerful of the Dogs and closest to Whelan

Marc Kirkland – an esthete and master of martials fighting and weapons techniques

Nick Stensen – a loner and certifiably insane; he hunts down and kills criminals who have escaped the law

Quentin Thomas – a philosopher king; the best pure athlete of the Dogs and professor of Eastern philosophies

Rafe Almeida – genetically gifted like the other Dogs, but an inveterate substance abuser and skirt-chaser

Tom Murphy – Caitlin Whelan’s father and a former member of the UK’s SBS; currently An Garda Síochána (the Irish National Police force) District Superintendent for County Kerry, Ireland

Padraig (Paddy) Murphy – Caitlin’s brother and the Sergeant in Charge of the An Garda Síochána station in Dingle, Ireland

General Roscoe Buster McCoy – Marine Corps 2-Star General and head of Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command, or MARSOC

Maureen Delaney - chief executive of one of the largest and most successful technology companies on the planet, and Levell’s love interest

Rhee Kang-Dae – Levell’s personal assistant, driver, and bodyguard

The Mueller Brothers (Alfred, Hermann, and Tomas) – billionaire industrialists and patriots who fund SAS operations and provided leading edge technological support

Camila Ramirez – a sheriff’s deputy in Albuquerque, New Mexico and Mitch Christie’s lady friend

Lou Antonelli – an agent of the FBI and Mitch Christie’s coworker

Dr. William Nishioki – a geneticist who, with his late colleague Jacob Horowitz, discovered the advanced genetic makeup and helped Levell and McCoy recruit the Dogs; retired and living in coastal California

Gennady Vasilyev – Russian general and head of SVR, Russia’s external intelligence agency

Prince Bandar bin Nayif al Saud - head of Saudi general intelligence

Prince Khalid bin Salmon al-Rahman - Saudi minister of finance

Nadir Shah – leader of the Holy Army of the Caliphate, a radical group establishing an Islamic state in the Middle East

Zheng Bao Xun - the minister of finance for the People’s Republic of China

Harold Case – retired CIA employee who uncovered the supposedly destroyed Agency file on the Sleeping Dogs while in the employ of Sen. Howard Morris

Chaim Laski – international arbitrageur and financial manager for a far-left organization seeking to destroy the USA from within

Senator Howard Morris – a powerful senator from New York and darling of the far-left causes. He has presidential aspirations

Shepard Jenkins – Morris’s chief campaign advisor

Aaron Rickover – a rookie agent at the FBI

Jim Franconia – the CIA’s liaison with the Federal Bureau of Investigation

Andrei Ulyanin – former Spetsnaz colleague of Federov’s, now working with him in Iraq

Princes and governments are far more dangerous than other elements within society.

—Niccolo Machiavelli

PART ONE: DOG BITES MAN

Chapter 1—Dingle, Ireland

Barring sleep disorders, most people’s sleep patterns are distributed in the center of the bell curve. But there are outliers. Some can sleep through an earthquake or hurricane. A few will wake at the sound of a fly landing on the wall—in the next room. Brendan Whelan was one of them.

Something woke him, but it wasn’t an insect. It was something common, yet out of the ordinary for the place and time of night, like a guitar riff in the middle of a trackless desert. He couldn’t place the sound immediately, but he sensed danger. So he kept his eyes closed and listened. His genetic makeup gave him enhanced physical abilities. That, and years of highly specialized military and survival training, made him value caution. It had been reinforced by years of living a lie, constantly glancing over his shoulder for the pursuers he knew would come someday.

Almost imperceptibly, he slid his hand across the sheet and gently touched the warm, still form beside him. He could hear Caitlin breathing gently and steadily. He strained to hear sounds coming from the room their boys, Sean and Declan, shared. There was only silence and darkness. He opened one eye slightly, just a sliver. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he slowly opened both eyes. Nothing seemed amiss. He slid silently from beneath the covers and slipped out of bed.

The original part of the Fianna House Bed and Breakfast, or teach an Fianna in Gaelic, had been built in the late eighteenth century as a small farm bungalow on the outskirts of Dingle, Ireland. By the early part of the twentieth century, it had gradually been expanded into a three-story manor house. Whelan and Caitlin had acquired the property before they were married and developed it into a ten-bedroom, ten-bathroom inn with kitchen, dining room, library/sitting area, and a small office. Their third-floor bedroom was part of the original structure. The wood floor in that part of the house had been worn smooth over the decades. Now, it felt cool on the bottoms of his bare feet. Whelan had long ago found the old floor’s creaky spots and was careful to avoid them.

It was April and the temperatures in Dingle ranged from the mid-forties to the mid-fifties Fahrenheit. Whelan, who slept naked regardless of the temperature, grabbed a pair of well-worn denim cutoffs lying across the chest at the foot of the bed. He thought momentarily about reaching for the SIG Sauer P226 MK25 he kept in a special holster attached to the sideboard of the bed, but decided against it. It had been converted from the original nine-millimeter to forty-caliber. With three family members and a guest in the house, that weapon would be too dangerous to use. An errant slug could rip through the walls and strike an innocent victim.

The Kel-Tek KSG shotgun would have been his weapon of choice. Its internal dual-tube magazines each held six rounds of three-inch twelve-gauge shells. The chamber held a thirteenth. But he’d let his oldest son, Sean, practice fieldstripping it, and it was still in the room Sean shared with his younger brother. Whelan was six feet two inches and 225 pounds, with no measurable body fat. And he had those unique genetic gifts. Unless there were armed intruders in the house, a firearm would be overkill.

The Dingle peninsula, in Southwestern Ireland, jutted out into the wild and stormy Atlantic. As a result, the area experienced a more difficult and unpredictable climate than almost any other location in Ireland. Whelan was grateful this night was one of the rare calm moments. It made it easier for his ears to distinguish aberrant sounds. He paused in front of the closed double doors that opened into the hallway and listened intently. Somewhere in the house he heard what sounded like a muffled cry. It was there for just a moment, and then it was gone.

He flattened himself against the left panel of the door and slowly cracked open the right panel. Nothing moved in the hallway. He heard only silence. Moving quietly, he eased the door open farther and slipped through it, closing it softly behind him. Somehow the gesture made him feel that Caitlin was more secure. Gliding silently along the hall dimly illuminated by nightlights, he reached the door to his sons’ room. It was open a crack. He hoped it was because one of the boys had gone to the bathroom and neglected to close it all the way on his return.

He glanced through the crack and neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary. Gently pushing the door open, he slipped into the room. Except for the two boys curled up in their respective beds, there was no one there. As he was about to turn and leave, Sean sat up. Whelan quickly raised a finger to his lips. He pointed at each of the boys, then at their beds, signaling that they were not to get up. Sean nodded.

Whelan stepped back into the hallway and continued noiselessly toward the staircase at its end, checking each empty guest room before moving on. He descended the stairs quietly and carefully, still straining to hear anything besides the night sounds an old dwelling makes. He thought he heard a bedspring squeak followed by what sounded like a shoe scraping against a wood floor.

It was a slow time of year for tourists in Dingle. Only one guest room was occupied that evening, by Elenora Tankersley, a retired schoolteacher from Sheffield, England, who’d been an annual visitor for several years, preferring to come during the off season when rates were at their lowest. Her days were spent strolling the surrounding countryside between the frequent rainstorms, or alone in her room editing her memoirs—a source of amused speculation for Brendan and Caitlin. How such a solitary, introverted soul could have memoirs that would interest anyone? Although she was invited frequently to join the Whelan family for dinner, Miss Tankersley preferred to dine alone at one of the pubs she favored in Dingle. Following dinner, she usually retired early. Tonight had been no exception.

Whelan paused at the bottom of the stairs. Miss Tankersley’s room was two doors down the hall and on the left. Her door was open, as were the other empty guestroom doors. That was an anomaly. A very shy and private person, she always kept the door closed when she was in her room. His adrenaline level began to climb. He moved to the first open door, crouched low against the jamb and peered quickly into the room. Empty. He edged along the hallway to Miss Tankersley’s room and repeated the process.

Two men loomed in the shadows of the room. One was stretched across an inert body on the bed, pinning the elderly woman down. The other man held a pillow over her face. Both men were large, but that wasn’t what stopped Whelan from rushing into the room. It was the Makarov PM 9mm suppressed pistol being brandished by the man pinning Miss Tankersley’s body. Whelan silently cursed himself for deciding not to bring the Sig with him. He needed a plan, and quickly.

As his mind raced to connect the necessary dots, the man who was smothering Miss Tankersley raised the pillow. He placed two fingers against her neck above the common carotid artery. After a moment, he glanced at his colleague and nodded. The second man rose from his victim’s lifeless form and spoke softly. Whelan recognized the language as Eastern European—possibly Ukrainian, a language he had encountered in the recent past.

He edged away from the doorframe and backed along the hall to the room nearest the stairs. Ducking into it, he flattened himself against the wall just inside the door. He could hear the two men as they exited Miss Tankersley’s room and moved down the hall toward him. From the open doors, it was obvious that they’d completed a search of the second floor in order to eliminate anyone there. It was Miss Tankersley’s misfortune to be on holiday at the wrong time. Whelan knew they would take the stairs to the third floor, where his wife and sons were. He harbored no doubts about the men’s intentions.

As they walked past his hiding place, Whelan slipped out behind them. He grabbed each man by the nape of his neck with a grip so tight it all but paralyzed them. He smashed their heads together with bone-crushing force. Only a handful of individuals with similar genetics were capable of such strength, and tonight, rather than hiding his skills, Whelan would use every ounce of power he possessed to defend his home.

Instantly rendered unconscious, the men collapsed. Whelan cursed silently as the Makarov fell from one of the men’s hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. He pinned their bodies with a knee to each man’s chest, and wrapped a hand around each of their exposed throats. His fingers and thumbs closed around the pharyngeal muscles, aortae, trachea, and esophagus with such force that his fingertips and thumb nearly met in front of the cervical vertebrae. He leaned forward at the waist, then straightened, yanking his arms upward. The motion ripped most of the anterior portion of each victim’s neck completely free of their bodies—a huge wolf dismembering lesser beings that threatened his mate and their pups.

He wiped his hands on the dead men’s clothing, picked up the Makarov, checked its magazine, and rose to continue the hunt.

Chapter 2—FBI Field Office, Albuquerque, NM

Mitch Christie stared out the bulletproof glass window of his office in the bombproof FBI Field Office Building. It was a full-size window, an improvement over the sliver of glass in his old office at the Bureau’s HQ in Washington. The sky above Albuquerque, New Mexico, was cornflower blue and cloudless. But Christie was oblivious to it and the striking beauty of the Sandia Mountains’ rugged spine rising in the distance.

He had been struggling all morning to put together notes for the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force meeting that afternoon. OCDETF, a combination of federal, state, and local investigative and prosecutorial agencies, was tasked with expanding and intensifying the U.S. government's anti-drug mission. It conducted collaborative long-term investigations against major drug trafficking organizations.

Christie was co-chair of the Task Force along with Tom Burkhardt, a captain in the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department. He hated the OCDETF part of his job, and knew that was contributing to his difficulty concentrating on prepping for the meeting. He continued to gaze out the window, almost sightlessly. There was more to his problems than having to work with the Task Force.

Barely two months earlier, the higher-ups in the Justice Department and the Bureau had become disappointed in his failure to make progress in solving the Harold Case murder. They’d also noticed the effect his marital problems were having on him. The determination had been made that he’d risen as high in his career as he was capable. He had been transferred to the Albuquerque Field Office as Assistant Special Agent in Charge. It was a demotion. There would be no further upward mobility for him.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever adjust to the dry Southwestern climate. As if on cue, an area on his right calf began to itch. Similar areas covered his body, as his skin struggled to adjust. The lining of his nasal passages was still dry and bleeding.

The climate wasn’t his only problem, either. He had come to realize that he hated his whole job, every aspect of it. Christie had been an FBI agent for almost two decades, since his graduation from law school. For years the job had been the focal point of his life. That’s where the damage had been done. Without realizing what he was doing, he’d allowed the demands of the Bureau to supersede the needs of his family. His wife, Deborah, had left him almost a year ago. Their two kids, Brett and Samantha, sixteen and fourteen, had chosen to live with their mother in Maryland. Thinking of them, of what he had lost, triggered a knot in his chest.

He raised his coffee mug to his lips, as if swallowing might wash the discomfort away. The coffee was cold. Stone cold. He quickly spit it out and thumped the mug back on his desktop. A few drops sloshed out and added to the stains on his blotter. He continued to hold the mug’s handle in a tight grip. His other hand reached for his abdominal area and began to massage a familiar spot over his stomach, just below and to the left of his solar plexus. He reached involuntarily for the drawer of his desk, then remembered. There was no Mylanta. Its manufacturer, Johnson & Johnson, had recalled the product some time ago. It still had not returned to the market.

He sighed and dug in a pants pocket for his package of Rolaids. It’s a hell of a thing that it’s come to this. Lost my family, developed a disloyal stomach, and hate my job. He remembered when he’d started with the Bureau. He’d been on a fast track to achieving his goal: the rank of at least Assistant Director. Then he’d follow his wife’s urgings and retire with a nice pension by the time he was fifty-five. The next step would have been to find a cushy, non-stressful job as an executive with a private security firm. Now, those dreams were gone.

But it wasn’t just the demands of the Bureau that had ruined his world. That damn Brendan Whelan was the real culprit. Jesus, I hate that Irish bastard. His hand tightened on the flesh of his abdomen as a sharp wave of pain coursed through his stomach. Him and his gang of genetic mutants, the Sleeping Dogs. What was it the geneticist, Nishioki, had suggested—they were Mother Nature’s beta models of a whole new race of humans? Stronger, faster, smarter. How the hell is an older model Homo sapiens, like me, supposed to deal with them?

Another sharp pain sliced through Christie’s stomach and he reflexively tossed another Rolaid into his mouth. He turned away from the window and looked at the framed picture of his family on his desk. It wasn’t humiliating enough that, despite his best efforts and the tremendous pressure he’d been under to find Case’s murderers, Christie had been unable to make much progress. More humiliating was that the old Cold Warrior, Cliff Levell, had perceived a threat to Christie’s family when Christie himself hadn’t. Levell had honored a deathbed pledge he’d made to his wife’s father, a fellow Marine who had saved his life in a firefight in Vietnam. Levell had the Dogs kidnap Deborah and the children and hold them in protective custody. It didn’t matter to Christie that Levell had been right—that his family really had been targeted for harm. What mattered to him was his wife’s reaction.

Christie felt his anger began to rise. Deborah had obstinately rejected his suggestion that she was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. She’d insisted that Whelan and the other Dogs were kind and wonderful men who had saved her and the children. Worse, she’d seemed smitten with Whelan. Clearly, Christie no longer measured up. Irish bastard!

After eighteen years of being completely faithful to his wedding vows, how could she have rejected him like that? It had to be Whelan’s fault. The thought sent another agonizing bolt through his stomach. Whelan must have seduced her. Christie grabbed his abdomen with one hand and squeezed as tightly as he could while popping two more Rolaids with the other hand.

There was a light knock on his office door. A moment later his boss opened it and strode in. Annette Wojakowski was short and chunky with a dark brown bob and wire-rim glasses. She was wearing one of her usual business suits. Today it was navy blue wool, a size or two too small, with a short skirt better worn by a woman with more attractive legs. She walked over to one of his side chairs and sat heavily on the edge of the seat, knees primly locked together.

Skipping small talk, she said, What are you working on?

Christie didn’t like the woman and knew the feeling was mutual. Wojakowski, the Albuquerque SAC, had been forced to reshuffle her personnel and procedures to accommodate his transfer. She hadn’t liked it.

I’m putting together some notes for this afternoon’s drug enforcement task force meeting, he said.

What time is the meeting?

One thirty. Why?

Wojakowski looked at him for a moment. It was a cold, unfriendly look. You have other assignments that need attention too. I wouldn’t expect preparing for that meeting would require much effort.

Christie shrugged. His stomach felt as if it were roiling with molten lava, but he didn’t want to pop a Rolaids in front of Wojakowski. She would interpret it as a sign of weakness.

Don’t you have a cochair, a sheriff’s deputy or something?

Christie nodded. A captain. Tom Burkhardt.

Why don’t you let him make these preparations?

Now it was Christie’s turn to give Wojakowski a hard look. The Bureau has a terrible reputation with local law enforcement agencies. Part of that has been caused by us sloughing off the grunt work on them. I’m trying to improve on that image.

The SAC pointed a stubby index finger at him and began wagging it slowly back and forth. Our work is much more important than anything these local yokels do. I hope you understand that.

Christie gritted his teeth and nodded.

I didn’t ask to have you assigned to my office, Agent Christie. Nevertheless, I’ve tried to accommodate Washington’s wishes by finding things for you to do. But, frankly, I haven’t seen you doing much of anything.

He was silent for a moment, struggling to ignore the insult. As one of the two Assistant SACs in this office, my job description includes supervising the ERT, he said—the Albuquerque Evidence Response Team, which conducted crime scene investigations and collected and analyzed forensic evidence that ultimately needed to stand up under scrutiny in a court of law. That’s an area where I have solid experience, but, frankly, some of these jobs you’ve assigned to me seem far less important and tend to interfere with my ERT duties.

She raised a brow.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Look, Ms. Wojakowski, I can appreciate that you didn’t ask for me to be assigned to this office. But I’m here and I bring many years of valuable experience with the Bureau. With all due respect, the work you’ve assigned to me—the OCDETF; the Safe Streets task force; personnel duties—is practically insulting. I am capable of making a much more significant contribution to this office.

The SAC sat forward, hands folded in her lap, knees still tightly locked. Are you challenging my authority, Agent Christie? You’re not a Supervisory Special Agent in Washington, D.C., anymore. Anger and disapproval smoldered in her small, dark, widely spaced eyes.

No, Ms. Wojakowski, I…

"It’s Agent Wojakowski," she snapped.

Christie stared at her for a couple of seconds. Things weren’t going well. They rarely did where Wojakowski was concerned. He started again. "Excuse me, Agent Wojakowski. I’m not challenging your authority. I’m just suggesting that I have a great deal of valuable experience that could be helpful to the Albuquerque office."

She pushed her wire-rim glasses up the bridge of her short, wide nose. It reminded Christie of a pig’s snout.

Valuable experience? I suppose you’re referring to how badly you handled the case involving that gang of ex-military psychopathic killers? The ones who killed the ex-CIA agent Harold Case and tried to assassinate POTUS, but killed the AG instead. The same ones who butchered that billionaire financier, Chaim Laski, and 20 or so of his household staff? The ones you couldn’t apprehend even though they appear to have been operating right under your nose? Is that the experience you’re referring to, Agent?

For one of the very few times in his life, Christie felt a strong desire to knock a fellow agent senseless, and a female at that. He struggled mightily to maintain self-control. The fire in his stomach blazed to new heights.

Actually, he managed to say through a clenched jaw, the ‘gang’ you referenced was the deadliest Special Ops unit this country, or any other, has ever produced. And they didn’t attempt to assassinate the president. In fact, they were trying to stop an assassination from happening. Laski was behind the plot and, as it turned out, was laundering money for a foreign power whose goal was the destruction of our country from within. His ‘household staff,’ as you call them, were nothing more than Ukrainian thugs in this country illegally to carry out Laski’s dirty work.

Rather than backing down, Wojakowski was warming to the fight. She slid her wide bottom forward in the chair until she was barely balanced on the very edge. The action slid her short skirt up, revealing a portion of her heavy thighs. Christie, repulsed, kept his eyes locked with hers.

As I recall, you mishandled the matter so badly that you actually sat next to the gang’s leader on a cross-country flight without realizing who he was. She smirked.

Where did you hear that?

The entire Bureau, and most of Washington, has gotten a good laugh out of that one.

Christie gritted his teeth. The man’s name was Whelan, and we had no idea what he looked like or that he was even alive. He and the others were supposed to have died in a plane crash off Puerto Rico twenty years earlier. They would have stayed ‘dead’ if they hadn’t been outed by Harold Case, who was working for a former senator trying to embarrass his own country to gain favor with his left-wing base. That’s what got Case killed. The damn fool’s actions loosed the Sleeping Dogs—awakened them, so to speak.

Really? Her smirk was bigger now. And while you were bumbling through the investigation, this Whelan person kidnapped your wife. As I understand it, shortly after that, she left you.

Christie was speechless.

His boss stood up, rising to a full five feet three inches, including her two-inch heels. I’m of the opinion that you mishandled every aspect of that investigation. That, together with your inability to deal emotionally with the end of your marriage, got you transferred out here. Now you’re my problem. But let’s be very clear. This office is not a charity. It’s not a refuge for failed agents. She paused for effect, then said, Understand this: You will do whatever I tell you to do, exactly when and how I tell you to do it. Otherwise, I will do everything in my power to have your career with the Bureau terminated.

Her steely gaze held his. We won’t be having this conversation again.

She glanced at her watch. I have a lunch meeting. With that, she turned abruptly and walked out of the room, leaving the door open. Just then, another agent, Emory Wallace, walked by. He stopped and turned to watch Wojakowski’s retreating backside, then looked at Christie, winked and gave him a thumbs-up sign. The Polish Viper strikes again, Wallace said.

Chapter 3—Dingle, Ireland

If someone or some organization wanted Whelan dead, they would leave no potential witnesses. That meant Whelan’s family members also were targeted. He was certain that the party responsible not only knew who he was, but what his physical capabilities were. Sending only two thugs to accomplish the task would be like taking the proverbial knife to a gunfight. There had to be more intruders in the house. Any would-be assassins who remained would be on the first floor. Whelan intended to kill all but one. He’d save that poor soul for interrogation, using methods that would shock even the CIA.

He quietly approached the staircase and peered carefully around the corner. A man with a bulky build stood at the foot of the stairs looking up. He must have heard the sound of the Makarov hitting the wood floor and was coming to investigate. With inhuman quickness, Whelan spun around the corner in a crouch, the suppressed Makarov extended in front of him. Before the other man could even raise his own weapon, Whelan double tapped him; the first shot in the thorax, the second in his head. The man’s body bounced off the wall behind him and toppled forward. This portion of the floor was carpeted; there was minimal sound as the dead man and his weapon hit the floor.

Whelan descended the remaining stairs, still in a half crouch, sweeping the Makarov from left to right like a metronome. An acrid smell other than gunpowder burned his nostrils. Someone was smoking in his house. That almost was reason enough to kill the offender.

The bottom of the stairs opened into the foyer. As he paused to pick up the dead man’s pistol, he strained to hear sounds that didn’t belong in the house at night. After several moments, he heard something that sounded like metal being dragged across wood. The sound had come from the kitchen.

The kitchen was located to his left, beyond the dining area. He scanned the foyer. Seeing no one, he moved silently across the dining room to the doorway. A heavyset man sat at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. His left hand rested on another suppressed Makarov. Moving the heavy gun across the top of the wooden table must have made the sound Whelan had