Sleeping Dogs: The Three Book Set

By John Wayne Falbey

In Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, Brendan Whelan, Irish-born, USA-raised, is the leader of the Sleeping Dogs, the deadliest of black ops hunter-killer teams. They must stop an attempt to assassinate a president he and much of the nation despise. He and his colleagues, unforgettable antiheroes, must navigate a dangerous series of plot twists and betrayals involving a remarkable cast of characters—crooked politicians, Russian agents, Ukrainian gangsters, a billionaire international arbitrageur, a secret society of patriots in the military and intelligence communities, the CIA, and one doggedly determined FBI agent. The body count begins to soar from the first chapter, as Whelan and the other Dogs pursue a deadly game of cat and mouse with 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. If it succeeds, the world will descend into chaos and anarchy; and time is running out. But the one thing the enemy doesn’t have is the Sleeping Dogs.
In Endangered Species, the world is descending into chaos. America is like a rudderless ship—its elected government gridlocked and ineffective. Rogue governments spit on Old Glory and defy a weakening America to stop them. Religious fanatics are dedicated to butchering all the world’s citizens who don’t convert to their primitive, seventh-century dogma. And the worst is yet to come. From Russian aggression to worldwide jihadism, from China’s designs on Southeast Asia and beyond to a morally and financially bankrupt European Union, from violent and expanding drug cartels to Iranian nuclear ambitions, the members of the Alliance for Global Unity—AGU are close to achieving their goal: the anarchy and chaos that will usher in a single world government with them ruling it.
But appearances can be deceiving. The key to stopping them is the world’s deadliest hunter-killer black ops unit—the Sleeping Dogs. But keeping the six Sleeping Dogs alive is challenging. An outstanding Presidential Decision Directive ordered these men to be terminated with extreme prejudice. A vengeful FBI agent, believing his wife had an affair with the unit’s leader, Brendan Whelan, is pursuing him with homicide on his mind. A rogue Russian agent seeks revenge because his mission to assassinate the president of the United States was thwarted by the Dogs. And, most chillingly, a huge and mysterious brute named Maksym is systematically hunting the Dogs down individually. The fate of the free world hangs in the balance.
In Year of the Dog, China is on the offensive, solidifying its dominion throughout Asia and setting its sights on the rest of the planet. The Russian president intensifies his threat against the free peoples of Europe and beyond. Islamic terrorists continue to fan the flames of hatred and discord across the globe. The world’s baddest actors are ramping up their malevolent ambitions. And some of America’s most dangerous enemies are inside the Beltway.
Meanwhile, America’s government, like a modern Nero, fiddles away the country’s treasure, seemingly too oblivious or incompetent to recognize the threat. The patriotic shadow government known as The Society of Adam Smith doesn’t have the benefit of unlimited human and financial resources. And time is running out. But it does have the one resource that no one else has—the world’s deadliest team of hunter-killers. The problem is to get them back together. Three of the six are in various prisons. One is focused relentlessly on avenging the deaths of his wife and sons. A fifth is struggling with a mid-life crisis at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. That leaves Brendan Whelan with one of the most difficult tasks he’s ever faced—reuniting the unwilling Sleeping Dogs and stopping the Free World’s enemies from destroying

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Wayne Falbey
• Release date: Jun 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998611716

John Wayne Falbey

John Wayne Falbey writes thrillers set in the contemporary world of international espionage and geopolitical intrigue. He wrote his first book while he was a student at Vanderbilt University School of Law. He subsequently practiced law in his native state of Florida and later became active in land development. Along the way, he earned masters and doctoral degrees in Business Management. He also spent five years in academia, creating and chairing a Master of Science program in real estate development at a graduate school of business in Florida. In 2010, he returned to his first love, writing, and began creating his Sleeping Dogs series of thrillers. His debut novel in the series, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, reached international best-seller status. He followed it with Endangered Species, Year of the Dog, Dogs of War, A Deadlier Breed, The Devil’s Litter, and The People’s Republic of America. A Deadlier Breed won the Whammy Award at the 2019 Southwest Florida Writers Conference for the “single most impactful writing” as determined by a panel of literary agents and editors in attendance. He also has written and published two stand-alone novels: The Quixotics and The Taxman Cometh. All books are available in print at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble. Digital—eBook—versions of all books are available at all major online book retailers. The first book in the series, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, also is available in audio format from Amazon.com or Audible.com. All other books are available in audio format through Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/search?q=Falbey&c=books. Wayne can be reached at: [e-mail]

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SLEEPING DOGS: THE AWAKENING

A SLEEPING DOGS THRILLER

By:

John Wayne Falbey

Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 John Wayne Falbey.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The Falbey Group, LLC

ISBN: 978-0-9855187-1-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012909065

Cover Design: Tatiana Vila

DEDICATION

To Annie, my wife, and so much more—my best friend, my partner, my playmate, my biggest fan, my inspiration. Thank you for your love, patience, encouragement and trust. No one has ever had a better companion for life.

- Table of Contents -

Cast of Characters

PART ONE: STRAY DOG

Chapter 1—Georgetown, USA

Chapter 2—Georgetown

Chapter 3—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 4—Georgetown

Chapter 5—Hart Senate Office Building

Chapter 6—Georgetown

Chapter 7—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 8—Tysons Corner, Virginia

Chapter 9—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 10—Hart Senate Office Building

Chapter 11—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 12—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 13—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 14—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 15—Potomac, Maryland

Chapter 16—Frederick, Maryland

PART TWO: DOG CATCHER

Chapter 17—Tampa, Florida

Chapter 18—Tampa

Chapter 19—Atlanta

Chapter 20—Tampa

Chapter 21—Hart Senate Office Building

Chapter 22—Potomac, Maryland

Chapter 23—Tampa

Chapter 24—The Not So Friendly Skies

Chapter 25—San Francisco

Chapter 26—Santa Cruz, California

Chapter 27—Maui, Hawaii

Chapter 28—Hāna, Hawaii

Chapter 29—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 30—Hāna, Hawaii

Chapter 31—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 32—San Diego

Chapter 33—Fairview Beach, Virginia

Chapter 34—New Orleans

Chapter 35—New Orleans

Chapter 36—New York City

Chapter 37—Bayou Country

Chapter 38—Dulac, Louisiana

Chapter 39—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 40—Nashville

PART THREE: OLD DOGS, NEW TRICKS

Chapter 41—Dingle, Ireland

Chapter 42—Hart Senate Office Building

Chapter 43—Western North Carolina

Chapter 44—North Carolina Mountains

Chapter 45—Final Exercise

Chapter 46—Acid Test

Chapter 47—Boy’s Night Out

Chapter 48—The Cavern

Chapter 49—Virginia Tidewater Country

PART FOUR: MAD DOGS

Chapter 50—The Club

Chapter 51—Frederick, Maryland

Chapter 52—Fredericksburg, Virginia

Chapter 53—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 54—Richmond, Virginia

Chapter 55—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 56—Fredericksburg

Chapter 57—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 58—Off the East Coast of Florida

Chapter 59—Fredericksburg

Chapter 60—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 61—Richmond

Chapter 62—The National Mall

Chapter 63—Fredericksburg

Chapter 64—Washington, D.C.

Chapter 65—Potomac, Maryland

Chapter 66—Arlington, Virginia

PART FIVE: DEAD DOGS

Chapter 67—J. Edgar Hoover Building

Chapter 68—Potomac, Maryland

Chapter 69—Potomac, Maryland

Chapter 70—The Mission

Chapter 71—Guam

Chapter 72—J. Edgar Hoover Building

A Note From the Author

Acknowledgements

Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

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

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 – a master of martials fighting and weapons techniques with a monk-like approach to life

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

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

Maksym Kozak – a ruthless killer and genetic freak who works for the highest bidder and intends to kill all of the Sleeping Dogs for the sake of revenge

Kirill Federov – a former Spetsnaz (Russian special ops) colonel serving in the SVR, Russia’s external intelligence agency; he seeks vengeance against General McCoy and Cliff Levell

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 provide leading edge technological support

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

Aaron Rickover - a twenty-something newcomer to the FBI

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

It is nought good a slepying hound to wake

- Chaucer, Troilus and Criseyde

PART ONE:

STRAY DOG

1 Georgetown: Coincidence

Dead men don’t usually drive a Jeep through Georgetown at 2:30 in the morning. But Brendan Whelan was doing it. His officially issued death certificate was on file with the Puerto Rico Department of Health, along with those of his five colleagues. According to the documents, all of them had perished almost twenty years earlier in a plane crash off the coast of that island commonwealth. The certificates didn’t say that the six men were members of the deadliest special ops hunter-killer team ever assembled. It also wasn’t disclosed that they were fleeing from the execution of a Presidential Decision Directive. The PDD, a document classified as a matter of national security, had ordered the six men to be terminated with extreme prejudice. Also unsaid was the fact that none of the men’s bodies had ever been recovered. So here Whelan was, all these years later, in the most dangerous place on earth for him to be—the United States.

An old friend and mentor, Clifford Levell, was well aware of the danger, yet he all but commanded Whelan to come to him. He didn’t know what Levell wanted. The man wouldn’t say over the phone. But he owed Levell. Owed him a lot. Levell had been his mentor, his creator—in a sense his Dr. Frankenstein. He had made Whelan into the man he was today. He knew Levell wouldn’t expose him to the dangers he faced in the States if the situation wasn’t critical. Still, he was angry at having to leave his family and the comfortable, safe life he had built in Ireland. And very uneasy being back in the States.

It was early morning, a few days into a new year, and cold. Whelan wore thin glove liners, partly to counter the chill and partly to avoid leaving fingerprints in the rented Jeep. A stranger in a strange land, particularly one under a death warrant, takes precautions. A soft rain, not much more than a heavy mist, blurred the landscape, creating halo effects around the streetlights. The only sounds were the hiss of the tires on the wet streets and the Grand Cherokee’s wipers wagging slowly across the windshield. The hypnotic rhythm didn't help his fatigued state. Even the odor of stale cigarette smoke from a previous user didn’t seem as annoying now.

Stifling a yawn, Whelan punched the radio’s On button, hoping it would provide some stimulation. Phil Collins’ In the Air Tonight was playing. It brought back memories of another era. Some good, some not so good.

Whelan thought about the handful of others like him who also had been trained by Levell. He remembered every one of them, even the ones they’d lost along the way. All of them had been young then, and gifted in ways most people couldn’t imagine. Whelan knew he had been Levell’s prize student. He wondered what had become of the five other survivors.

Levell had stayed in touch with each of them over the years – separately, for their own safety. Whelan wondered whether Levell had summoned any of the other survivors to this meeting. Probably not—it was just too dangerous.

He turned the Jeep into a quiet residential section of Georgetown. It was a shame the others wouldn’t be present. He’d like to see some of them again: Larsen, the man with no neck; Stensen, the vigilante; Thomas, the philosopher; Kirkland, the Zen master; even Almeida, the weakest link but usually good for comic relief. He remembered them all—each extremely intelligent, superbly athletic, beta models of humans of the future. And stone killers every one.

Headlights caromed out of the mist to his right. Shit. Exhausted and distracted by his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the vehicle approaching from a side street. It was too late to avoid the collision. Instinctively, he yanked the steering wheel hard left, causing the Jeep to slew on the wet road. Better for the large, black limousine to impact the passenger side of his truck at an angle rather than take its force head-on.

The Jeep was only partially angled to the left when the collision occurred. The limo’s driver had yanked his steering wheel to the right. His car’s left front fender slammed into the Jeep’s right front fender. The ugly sounds of glass shattering and metal twisting and ripping violated the stillness of the night. The force of the impact spun the Jeep 180 degrees, tires shrieking against the pavement in a futile attempt to find purchase. Momentum propelled the Jeep diagonally across the intersection. It rolled to a sudden stop as its rear bumper rammed a light pole, knocking it askew.

Whelan’s fatigue vanished with the force of the impact. His senses were fully alive now. The smell of leaking gasoline clashed with the oddly comforting scent of the leather seats. His survival instincts were on high. He couldn’t get involved with police or emergency medical personnel. The urge to climb out of the truck and bolt into the shelter of the night was powerful. And Levell’s house was only two blocks away.

The tilting streetlight acted like a floodlight in the mist, focused on the Jeep. Through the crazed pattern in the damaged windshield, Whelan saw that the limo had stopped in the middle of the intersection. The limo driver and another man got out. Both were large men, dressed in badly fitting, out of fashion dark suits and solid color ties. Each wore an earbud. As they drew closer, he saw that each was wearing a brass nametag pinned to a breast pocket. The limo driver’s said Borys. His companion’s said Vadim.

Whelan waited calmly in the Jeep as the two men approached. From their facial scars and the way they carried themselves, it was clear they were no strangers to violence. Whelan assumed these were dangerous men. He kept both hands on top of the steering wheel where the men could see them.

As they approached on the driver’s side, Vadim stopped near the rear of the vehicle. Borys leaned his six-foot-five-inch frame down and peered carefully through the driver’s window. Whelan knew what they’d see: Other than a day’s growth of beard, his skin was smooth and unlined. His features were even, with a strong chin and patrician nose. He had light brown hair, parted on the right. Ordinary. Except for his eyes. They were an icy blue, like the color of a deep glacial crevasse, and they were locked onto Borys’s eyes with no sign of emotion. Whelan saw that it unnerved Borys. Men that large and sinister looking were accustomed to being the intimidator.

You are all right, yes? Borys said. Whelan recognized an Eastern European accent.

Yes.

You have identification, yes? Borys held out a meaty hand for emphasis.

With his right hand, Whelan reached slowly into his front pocket and pulled out his wallet. He removed a driver’s license and handed it to Borys. As the large man took it, Whelan noticed the back of his hand was heavily tattooed, even his fingers.

Borys squinted at the ID in the poor light and said, Walter Bailey. From Omaha, Nebraska. His W sounded more like a V. English was his second language. Barely.

That’s right.

Borys glanced briefly at Vadim, then, turning back, said, You are long way from Omaha, yes? Is late. What you are doing in Georgetown?

Attending a college reunion. Haven’t been back here in years. Must have gotten lost.

Borys spoke a single word in his native tongue and pointed to the ground next to the Jeep. The word was foreign to Whelan, but he understood the gesture. Get out of the truck.

He kept his right hand visible on the steering wheel. With his left, he slowly reached down and opened the door. In the process, he nicked his little finger on a piece of glass from the broken windshield. A small trickle of blood began to ooze from the cut.

Whelan swung his legs over the rocker panel and stepped carefully out of the truck. He suspected the situation was about to get worse. He would need just the right moment to act.

Borys motioned Whelan out into the street. The three men stopped directly beneath the tilting streetlight. As they did, Borys raised a hand to his earbud. It drew Whelan’s attention to the additional tattoos on Borys’s neck. He glanced quickly at Vadim and saw similar body graffiti. He recognized them as gang symbols—for an especially ruthless Ukrainian crime syndicate.

Borys listened for a few moments to the voice coming through the earpiece then glanced at Vadim. They each took a step backward, swiftly pulling Glock 17s from the waistband of their pants. Borys said, We are thinking you are not this man, Bailey, and we are thinking you lie about college reunion.

Whelan said nothing.

Borys stepped closer and raised the Glock so that it was angled about 45 degrees with the ground and pointing just to the outside of Whelan’s left kneecap.

I have good nose for bullshit, said Borys, tapping the side of his thick nose with a meaty forefinger. I am thinking you are one of Levell’s peoples. And you are on way to see him. He turned slightly to smirk at Vadim. When he did, the muzzle of the weapon edged away from Whelan’s knee. It was his moment of opportunity.

Whelan moved fast. Faster than Borys’s brain could relay a message from his eyes to his trigger finger. Whelan wrapped his left hand around Borys’s thick right wrist just above the gun in his hand. Half turning to his left, he wrapped his right arm over and around the big man’s right arm. His forearm was just above Borys’s elbow. Borys, like a hound with a flea, tried to shake free of the man who was more than 50 pounds lighter. To his shock, he couldn’t.

Still gripping Borys’s arm, Whelan swiftly brought his right knee up above waist height, then drove the heel of his shoe down and into the outside of Borys’s right knee. The technique was designed to force the tibia out of the knee socket, destroying the tibial collateral and anterior cruciate ligaments and ripping the meniscus. He heard the satisfying pop as Borys’s knee buckled at a grotesque angle. He quickly and smoothly swung Borys’s bulk into Vadim’s line of fire.

Seamlessly, Whelan’s left hand pulled down forcefully on Borys’s wrist while he simultaneously drove his forearm upward against the big man’s upper arm. With another popping sound, Borys’s elbow joint dislocated and the weapon fell from his hand. Its polymer frame made a dull clattering sound as it hit the pavement. As Borys screamed in agony and began to collapse, Whelan literally threw the 300-pound man at Vadim. He sprinted up Borys’s massive falling body like a running back in days of old scaling linemen at the goal line. At the top, he launched a flying kick, his right heel smashing Vadim’s nose, nearly ripping it from his face. It snapped his head back. Stunned, Vadim staggered backward and almost fell.

Before Vadim could recover and refocus his weapon, Whelan closed the gap and grabbed his gun hand, thrusting a finger behind the trigger to prevent firing. He drove a knee forcefully into Vadim’s groin. A loud grunt exploded from the injured man’s lips. His knees buckled and he grabbed desperately at his assailant for support. But Whelan was too quick. He had both hands on Vadim’s right wrist and swung it up and around, careful to keep the weapon pointing away from him. He continued to sweep the arm backward and up, a difficult maneuver for ordinary people with a man as large as Vadim. But, genetically, Whelan was far from ordinary.

He tugged Vadim toward him, forcing him to shift his weight to his right foot, which Whelan swept from under him. The big man did a forward somersault and landed on the back of his neck. Before he could recover, Whelan drove the heel of his right shoe deep onto the soft tissue of Vadim’s unprotected throat, destroying his windpipe, larynx, and the scream that tried to rise from it. Unable to breathe, he quickly lost consciousness. He would die in less than three minutes.

Whelan turned back to Borys, who was writhing in pain on the street. He picked up both men’s Glocks, then bent over Borys for an instant and brought the butt of one of the Glocks down, crushing the man’s forehead and driving bone splinters into his frontal lobes. It wasn’t a necessarily a deathblow, but it was enough to destroy motor skills, libido, and problem-solving and creative thought processes. Borys, if he survived, would be in a vegetative state for his remaining years.

Whelan shifted his attention to the black limo, knowing that time was running very short. Neighbors would have heard the crash. By now, they would have called the authorities. He walked swiftly, but cautiously, toward the car, keeping one Glock focused on the middle of the windshield and the other on the left rear window. When he was still fifteen feet away, the right rear door opened and another large man climbed out. He was dressed similarly to Borys and Vadim. He brought his weapon up, bracing his arms on the limo’s roof for stability. Whelan opened fire with both of the 9mm Glocks. One hollow-point round pierced the bodyguard’s left eye and exited the back of his skull, taking much of his brain matter with it. His head snapped backward, and his body countered by toppling forward. The corpse slid clumsily down the side of the limo, leaving a bloody streak all the way to the rocker panel.

As Whelan drew close to the limo, the left rear window began to slide down. He aimed both Glocks into the darkness behind it. A face slowly emerged. He kept both weapons trained on it and made a quick scan of the car’s interior. The passenger was alone. He was wearing a dark brown double-breasted Burberry trench coat and clutching a cordovan leather attaché case in his hands. His face had collected more wrinkles and his hair, still parted in the same style, was much grayer and thinner, but the years had been kind to him and Whelan recognized him immediately.

"My God! It is you! the older man said. But…you’re dead!" And then it was he who was dead; shot in the middle of the forehead by a slug from one of the Glocks.

2 Georgetown: Reunion

Whelan heard the sounds of sirens in the distance, drawing closer. He glanced quickly around the neighborhood. Meticulously restored Georgian townhouses were pleasingly mixed with large homes in the Federal and Classical Revival styles. Lights had come on in some of their upper stories, and a few neighbors were peering out bedroom windows. Whelan squeezed off a couple of rounds, shattering the windows but intentionally not harming the occupants. It had the desired effect. The faces instantly disappeared and didn’t return.

He shoved a Glock into each of his windbreaker’s side pockets, and reached through the limo’s open window. Grabbing the attaché case from the dead man’s hands, he moved swiftly across the intersection, purposely heading away from Levell’s house. At the end of the next block, he turned right and ran swiftly and effortlessly for three blocks before turning right again. Levell’s house was at the end of the block.

Whelan cleared the front steps with a single leap and rang the bell. As he waited, he glanced around to make certain no one was watching. It felt like an eternity passed, so he rang the bell again. By now the police would have deciphered the residents’ excited babble. They would begin fanning out through the neighborhood, knowing the perp couldn’t have gone far on foot.

At last, the door was opened by an Asian man of indeterminate age. He was lean and wiry; about five feet seven inches tall with closely cropped black hair. His flat, finely chiseled features were expressionless. The man wore baggy black trousers, a black tee shirt, and Kung Fu slippers. Whelan guessed him to be Korean, and knowing Levell, assumed the man was a skilled martial artist.

May I help you? He had a high-pitched voice and a heavy accent.

Mr. Levell is expecting me.

The Asian man eyed him for a moment then said, You wait, and started to close the door.

Whelan said, I need to wait inside.

The man, aware of the sirens, quickly connected the dots and stepped aside. Whelan was prepared to wait just inside the door until the man returned, but Levell’s voice broke in from somewhere in the house. Mr. Rhee, has our guest arrived?

Yes, he here now.

Rhee motioned Whelan to follow him, and led the way across a large living room toward a hallway on the other side. There was a slightly musty odor in the air. Not mildew or mold; more like a space that hadn’t been aired out in a long time. The living room was dimly lighted by a single Tiffany lamp on a small table in one corner. The dark woods and Victorian-style furnishings added to the gloomy atmosphere. Several paintings, which Whelan took to be Gainsboroughs or excellent imitations, hung on the walls. The windows were clothed with heavy velvet drapes. A tray ceiling created a slight dome effect and supported a large, cut glass chandelier made of lead crystal. The flooring was a dark hardwood, partially covered by a large rug. Like many of the other furnishings and accessories, it looked old and valuable.

Rhee led Whelan down a wide, dimly lit hallway to a room that obviously was a den. Tall wooden bookshelves lined three walls. A large stone fireplace and mantle were built into the fourth wall. Several logs were burning nicely. Each side of the fireplace was decorated with framed photographs taken at various points in Levell’s life. Whelan recognized some of them from his experiences with the man almost two decades earlier. A large paneled, wooden desk sat in the middle of the room, papers strewn across its surface. Other than the fire, a small lamp on one corner of the desk provided the only light in the room.

An older man with closely cropped iron gray hair, bushy eyebrows and a strong jaw line sat in a wheelchair in front of the desk, a heavy robe across his lap. The disability had no effect on his military bearing. Whelan had known Clifford Levell, now in his early seventies, before the automobile accident had robbed him of his mobility. With his size, voice, features and mannerisms, Levell had always reminded Whelan of Clint Eastwood. Even more so now. He remembered Levell from an earlier time—strong, vigorous, hard-living. A warrior’s warrior.

Whelan placed the attaché case on the floor and the two men looked at each other for the first time in almost twenty years. Rhee stood silently in the background, like a faithful guardian—prepared for any exigency.

After a moment, Levell spoke. Brendan Whelan, the Prince of Wolves! He’d always been intrigued by the Irish Gaelic meaning of Whelan’s names. His voice was clear and strong, retaining a familiar raspiness. Son, you are a sight for these aging eyes.

Whelan leaned over and embraced the older man, surprised at how strong Levell seemed despite his handicap. It’s been a long time. How are you, Cliff?

Long? Hell, it’s been an eternity. And I’m doing all right considering I’m confined to this damn baby buggy.

I heard about that, Whelan said. I’m sorry.

Look, son, sooner or later life kicks all of us in the ass. He smiled as he said it. But I have no regrets; it’s been a good life. And it remains so. He motioned for Whelan to sit in one of the overstuffed leather desk chairs. I heard sirens. That have anything to do with you?

Whelan nodded. On the way here, I literally ran into someone from our past. Whelan paused for a moment then said, It was Case.

Levell sat forward suddenly in his wheelchair. "Harold Case?"

The same.

Given what I know about his recent activities, he may have been on his way here.

Why would he do that?

To try to persuade or bribe me to help him corroborate certain Agency files that were supposed to have been destroyed nearly twenty years ago. He shook his head in disgust. Damn bureaucrats. Nothing ever seems to get destroyed, burned, erased, or deleted as it’s supposed to.

Leaning back in his wheelchair, Levell said, Harold Case, was a miserable sonofabitch. Did he recognize you?

Yes.

Is he dead?

Yes, along with some hired muscle.

His departure was long overdue. Wish I had done it myself. Levell rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

Any witnesses to the scene? Anyone who could identify you?

None living.

Levell smiled. Chaucer was right. Never wake a Sleeping Dog.

What was Case up to? Whelan said.

He was working for someone who wants to expose the old Sleeping Dogs operation.

Why?

To discredit this country, a popular position on the far left.

Who was he working for?

The senior senator from New York, Howard Morris.

Whelan nodded in recognition of the name.

We know Morris is being bankrolled by a certain multibillionaire with a one-world view.

Chaim Laski? Whelan said. He’d been in Ireland nearly two decades, but had stayed current on America’s international and domestic issues.

You still connect the dots well, Levell said. The far left’s end game is to fundamentally transform the nation from a constitutional democracy governed by duly elected representatives of the majority to one that better fits their concept of a one-world socialist nirvana. Laski’s their money manager.

How is that possible? Isn’t America the home of rugged individualists who like to think for themselves?

Levell scoffed. That’s a dying breed, son; replaced by a generation or two of weak-kneed, over-pampered quitters. Looking for a free ride and expecting the government to provide it. Easy pickin’s for socialist candidates looking to merge the U.S. into a global nanny state.

The older man sat ramrod straight in his wheelchair. His anger was palpable. "They believe that goal can be achieved by ruining the economy, causing widespread panic. Hell, just look at current events. Profligate spending by an ever-expanding government that covers it with borrowed funds. Requiring fiscally unsupportable programs like mandatory universal health care. Running up the price of oil through bans on domestic drilling, all while our enemies are afloat in cheap carbon fuels.

Eventually the nation’s creditors will accept that we’re bankrupt. That will collapse the economy. Capitalism will be blamed for the mother of all depressions that follows, and the populace will turn to a ‘savior’ with a different plan. Then the transformation is complete.

Sounds like a socialist’s dream, Whelan said.

Levell nodded grimly. One ruled by a self-styled intellectual elite. People who think they can make better decisions for us than we’re capable of making for ourselves.

Ironic, Whelan said. And just when European states are beginning to realize socialism isn’t working.

It’s worse than you may think, Levell said. The administration has reduced our military’s size, funding, and technological superiority. It’s soft-soaped terrorism, calling it man-caused disaster or workplace violence, and avoided combating jihadists on their own turf. It’s apologized all over the globe for the U.S. role as peacekeeper. Now when trouble develops, it brags about ‘leading from behind’, and lets itself be outwitted by the Russians and other dangerous foes.

A weakened America is easier to absorb into a one-world order.

Bingo, Levell said. Look, I’m not saying that some change isn’t merited from time to time. And it doesn’t matter whether the Left or the Right produces constructive changes like racial equality, sane environmental standards, or workplace safety. But it’s like someone said, the great political failure of progressivism is it always goes too far.

Whelan said, Who’s behind this, Cliff?

"It’s supposed to look like it’s the Ruskies. But we believe they’re being gamed by domestic loons and certain greedy members of our own über rich. Sadly, they’re on the verge of realizing the fruits of their long labors. They now control one of the two major political parties in the U.S., as well as the news media. They’re a single appointment away from controlling a majority on the Supreme Court. They’ve twisted reality and molded public perception. And, naïve, self-absorbed fools that we are, most of us paid no attention."

So, you’re saying Case, Morris—they’re part of a long-term strategy, Whelan said, to bring the country down from within.

Levell nodded vigorously. He clearly was worked up. Whelan saw Rhee, who had been standing silently in the background, move a step closer to the old man.

Bastards thought they’d struck pay dirt back in the seventies with Carter’s election, Levell said, only to watch the bumbling fool inflame patriotism. That ushered in Ronald Reagan and a brief retaking of the direction of the country. Probably thought they were back on track with Clinton, but overestimated his dedication to leftist dogma and underestimated the size of the ego that drove him to the center for the popular acceptance he craved.

Levell’s eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down as if he had bitten into something rancid. They must have thought they’d hit the jackpot with the current president. Under this administration, they skirt the Constitution in a number of ways. Running the government by a series of executive orders. Appointing czars who bypass cabinet offices and report only to the administration without the required congressional vetting. They refuse to enforce laws they don’t like; and sue states if they pass such laws on their own. They abuse power through recess appointments even when Congress isn’t in recess. And when the federal courts overturn the appointments, they ignore them. Under Articles I and II, Congress holds all legislative power. Yet they issue a tsunami of regulations that strangle capitalism and entrepreneurship, such as the EPA’s regulations advancing Cap and Trade that Congress specifically voted down.

Levell smiled. Ironically, in spite of that, the president has alienated his own far left base because they don’t think he’s ‘progressive’ enough, that he’s too enamored with his rock star image to be manageable. They don’t want him to run for reelection. In fact, they have a replacement puppet in the wings.

Howard Morris, Whelan said.

Exactly.

I understand your concerns, but what does it have to do with me? Has Case’s meddling exposed me and the other members of the old unit? You could have communicated with me in the usual fashion. It doesn’t seem to require a face-to-face.

Maybe, but it’s more important than that.

What’s more important than protecting the anonymity of six men who’ve served this country and were rewarded for it by a PDD calling for their deaths?

Levell waived a hand impatiently, as if to cut Whelan off. It’s far larger than you six surviving members of the Sleeping Dogs.

"What is? Pax Americana?"

Yes, that and more. The reason I wanted you front and center is to help us put the unit back together. We need the services of you and your former colleagues. And you’re going to round them up.

You’re the point of contact with each of us. Why aren’t you rounding them up?

Levell looked at his wheelchair. Travel is a little difficult. And a phone call isn’t going to get it done. He gave Whelan a squinty-eyed smile. You were their leader. They respect you. A message from you, delivered in person, will have the most impact.

What’s the mission?

There’s going to be an attempt to assassinate the president.

Whelan let that sink in for a moment. Are you suggesting we’re going to do it? I don’t care for the son-of-a-bitch, but not strongly enough to kill him.

Levell shook his head impatiently. No, not us. His own party. We want to stop it.

Why? You were clear about the danger his agenda poses. Why not let the effort succeed?

Because, inevitably, it will be spun to make it seem that we did it.

Who’s ‘we’?

Later. There’s something more pressing at the moment.

3 J. Edgar Hoover Building

FBI headquarters were housed in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, a massive, multistoried structure on the north side of Pennsylvania Avenue between 9th and 10th Streets Northwest. Deep in its bowels, eighteen people were crammed into a small conference facility designed for a maximum of ten. All were beginning to perspire as their collective body heat raised the temperature in a room that was already overheated by the building’s HVAC system. Some sat scrolling through messages on their smart phones; others were engaged in animated conversations or phone calls. A few were watching a very large black man, the district commander of the Metropolitan Police Department’s Second District. He was leaning over the conference table and bellowing at the Bureau’s Supervisory Special Agent, Mitchel Christie.

Ordinarily, Christie was officed in the Bureau’s D.C. Field Office a few blocks away. To compensate for overcrowding there, some agents had recently been relocated to the Hoover Building. In Christie’s case the move had been sudden and very recent. When he had left his office last evening it had been in the Field Office building. The Harold Case affair changed that. He received a call at his home around three thirty that morning. His boss told him he was being assigned to head up the investigation, and would be relocated to the Hoover Building. Christie didn’t like surprises and he didn’t like change. But he was a company man and did as he was told.

The SSA sat calmly at the head of the table, his eyes focused on the district commander’s angry face. The only outward sign of tension was the soft drumbeat of Christie’s fingers slowly tapping in unison on the tabletop. He was working very hard to keep his temper under control despite the steady shower of spittle flying in his direction. It mixed with the perspiration beginning to bead up on his face. Finally, nearing the end of his patience, he held up a hand, palm outward, and said, Steve. That didn’t seem to have any effect. He paused for a moment, then raised his voice a notch and said, District Commander Williams, screaming and shouting won’t accomplish anything. It’s seven o’clock in the morning and the event happened barely four hours ago. Everybody here was yanked out of bed to come in and work on this thing. Let’s not waste any of their time.

Williams’ eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets as he struggled to control his rage. This massacre occurred on my turf! You have no idea what my office is like right now. Phones ringin’ off the fuckin’ hooks, frightened citizens crapping their drawers, media hammering away at me for details I don’t have. And my boss calling me every fifteen minutes expecting answers when I’m not even sure what the fuckin’ questions are. What I do know is I got three dead people and one vegetable on my hands. This meeting should be happening in my office instead of me having to drive across town to watch you clowns having a circle jerk. He straightened and took a deep breath.

Forensics ran the victims’ prints. Three of those men were in this country illegally. They each have extensive police records in Europe. He looked pointedly at Williams. We’ll work closely with your people, but the Bureau has been assigned primary jurisdiction of this investigation.

The district commander slammed a very large palm down on the table sending a shock wave all the way to its far end. You better hope you don’t fumble the ball on this. When he lifted his palm, it left a large wet mark on the tabletop.

All other activities in the room ceased as the SSA rose to his feet. He was a tall, lean man, but at six feet three inches he was a good three inches shorter than the district commander. And almost one hundred pounds lighter. The tense moment was interrupted as a small woman with short blonde hair and wire rim glasses approached the SSA. She whispered to him, One of our forensics people is on the line, sir. I think you’re going to want to hear this. She handed a cell phone to Christie.

Christie, he said. What have you got?

The voice on the other end said, It’s Billingsley, sir. We’ve found something that could identify one of the perps.

Yeah?

It’s a very small blood sample, but it doesn’t appear – preliminarily anyway – that it came from any of the victims.

Where did you find it?

Actually, we found two samples, on the right wrist of each of the two victims who were nearest the Jeep. But their skin wasn’t broken in those areas.

On their wrists? Christie paused for a moment and thought about what the evidence might mean. Any theories yet?

Not really, Billingsley said. Might be that one of the assailants was injured and the blood was transferred in close quarters combat. Judging from the injuries suffered by those two victims, it was hand-to-hand at some point.

Has the sample been sent to the lab for DNA testing yet?

Yes, sir.

Good work. Keep me posted. The SSA pressed the disconnect button and handed the phone back to his assistant. Charlotte, I wanna know the minute the DNA results are available. She nodded and returned to her seat near the other end of the table.

Christie turned toward the others gathered around the table and raised his hands, signaling for them to pay attention. All right, people, let’s get focused. The room suddenly quieted. Only the district commander remained standing, glaring at Christie, who said, It’s only been a short while since the event and we still don’t have much to go on, but let’s recap what we do know.

The SSA sat down, purposely ignoring the smoldering gaze from the district commander, who, with an undisguised snort, finally lowered his massive frame into a chair.

At approximately three a.m. an event involving fatalities occurred in a residential section of Georgetown. It appears to have involved a collision between a late model rented Jeep Grand Cherokee and a limousine. A man identified as Walter Bailey of Omaha, Nebraska, rented the Jeep earlier this morning at Dulles. The limousine was under lease by a Delaware corporation that’s in that line of business. It was hired for the evening by a senate investigative subcommittee for a retired CIA employee named Harold Case. Mr. Case was seventy-two years old and was working as a private contractor for that subcommittee. There were three fatalities and a potentially fatal injury. The men accompanying Mr. Case all were Ukrainian nationals who were in this country illegally. They apparently were working for a private security firm organized and headquartered in the Cayman Islands.

The SSA glanced at some sheets of paper on the table in front of him. Bailey appears to be an assumed name. There’s certainly no trace of such an individual in Omaha. Agents from our Atlanta office are checking into it, but it appears that the real Walter Bailey, on whom the identity is based, died at the age of twenty-eight while undergoing heart surgery in Georgia a decade ago.

A chubby man with glasses and thinning hair, who was sitting next to Charlotte, raised his hand. Excuse me, sir, but can the car rental people at Dulles identify the man who rented the Jeep?

Unfortunately, no, Chuck, Christie said. The car was rented from Hertz over the Internet from a public access computer in a library in Palo Alto, California. It was rented under the Walter Bailey name on a Hertz Number One Gold account. That means the car was waiting for him in the company’s lot with no check-in required. He just got in and drove it off. It was late and raining. No one saw him. The Hertz account was bogus; a dead end.

Didn’t Hertz’s surveillance cameras pick him up? Chuck said.

Yes, but the conditions were poor. He was wearing a cheap-looking raincoat with the collar turned up and a hat pulled low on his face. All we know is that he had longish hair, wore glasses, and was somewhat pudgy. We’re putting together a sketch of what we think he probably looks like and will get a copy to everyone here.

What about ballistics at the crime scene? Chuck said.

Nothing. Shell casings match bullets in spare magazines carried by the Ukrainians. It appears that one of them was used to kill one of the Ukrainians as well as Mr. Case who, incidentally was shot execution style. Head shot. Close range. There are severe powder burns around the entry wound. The Jeep, being a rental vehicle, had been occupied by dozens of people. So far none of the fingerprints, fibers or other forensic evidence recovered from the Jeep have been identified with anyone in our data banks. There were no credible eyewitnesses. No anything at this point. He didn’t mention the blood samples Billingsley had told him about—he needed this team focused on what they could make of the evidence on hand.

Williams intervened. Do we know what Case was working on for the subcommittee?

Christie closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temple. He knew from his years of experience with the Bureau that there would be little rest for him in the foreseeable future. We’re trying to gather that information now, Steve. Apparently it’s a matter of considerable national security. The only person who appears to know much about it is the committee’s chair.

And that would be? Williams said.

Senator Morris.

Howard Morris?

Yes.

Williams snorted loudly. Shit! That political hack is the biggest self-serving prick in a town full of them. Always grandstanding for his left-wing base by finding ways to embarrass this country.

Christie nodded. And generally succeeding.

He won’t tell us shit unless he stands to gain from it, Williams said.

Christie nodded again. If there was anything worse than a turf war, it was a turf war with politicians. The burning sensation in his stomach was turning into something much sharper—he’d had several cups of coffee on an empty stomach since the first call had come through at three thirty that morning. He wondered how much liquid remained in the bottle of antacid in his office, and when he would have an opportunity to get to it.

4 Georgetown: The Society

They were still in Levell’s study. Whelan had wolfed down a sandwich and was nursing an IPA. He put it down and said, Cliff, if you want my involvement, tell me who this ‘we’ is that you keep mentioning?

We refer to ourselves as the Society of Adam Smith, or just the ‘Society’. I can see you nodding. Yes, that Adam Smith, the father of modern capitalism and free markets, Levell said. Individually, we’re highly placed in the senior ranks of the military, the intelligence community and private industry. We formed around the nucleus of the group that led to the creation of the Sleeping Dogs project. When it was shut down and we saw which way the political winds were blowing, we realized the need for a shadow government of sorts; one that works behind the scenes to counter the efforts to throw a sovereign America under the one-socialist-world bus. The next four years are critical. If Morris is elected, it will mean the proverbial end of days for the America we love. For now, that’s all you really need to know.

Levell glanced at a large antique grandfather clock and said, Given the unexpected difficulties you ran into earlier this morning, we need to be more cautious than ever. Debrief your trip up to the time you arrived here. Leave nothing out.

Whelan took another pull from his beer. The plane and car reservations were made by one of your contacts. I flew into Dulles from Shannon using a fake British national’s ID.

Luggage?

Just a small carry-on.

You were in disguise?

Yeah, three piece business suit, cordovan lace-ups, goatee and mustache, Julius Caesar bangs, glasses. Pretty much kept my face buried in a newspaper or head turned toward the cabin hull, as if sleeping. Being in First Class, everyone pretty much minded his or her own business. I encouraged that with a certain aloofness.

What about Dulles? Levell said.

Put a cap on as I deplaned and went into the first head I came to. Changed into the clothes I’m wearing now, added a cheap raincoat, shaggy wig, rain hat, different glasses, glove liners and wrapped the three piece suit around my waist for extra padding. Packed everything else, including the glasses and fake whiskers, in the carry-on.

The car pick up?

Took the Hertz shuttle from the airport.

Driver notice you?

Yeah, but given the hour and the fact that no one else was onboard, there wasn’t much I could do. I was careful to keep my head down and touch nothing, even with the glove liners on. Made no conversation. I sat behind the luggage rack that’s immediately behind the driver. Gave him two bucks when he dropped me off. That’s pretty standard. Any more or less can get you noticed.

Surveillance at the car lot?

Sure, there are cameras everywhere today. But I took care not to give them much to record.

And the carry-on and extra clothes?

Dropped the clothes in one Goodwill drop-box, the carry-on, raincoat and hat in another. Tossed the wig and glasses out the window in separate places.

Levell nodded in approval. That should have the boys and girls at the Bureau chasing their tails. Unless there was blood, the only evidence they’ll have from the scene is the car.

Whelan drank the last of the Dogfish Head and set the empty bottle on a side table near his chair.

Levell ran a hand across one cheek. His face was lined by age and the stress of the life he’d led, but he still had a full head of hair, gray and close cropped, every bit the Marine officer he once had been. Isn’t it the height of irony that, after all these years, you and that sonofabitch run into each other when you’re on your way to see me. He shook his head. Do you think his ramming your vehicle was a deliberate act?

Whelan thought about the question for a moment or two, then shook his head. As much as neither of us believes in coincidences, I think that’s what this was; just one incredibly unfortunate coincidence. He paused. Why Ukrainians, though? There’s a lot of domestic muscle available on the street.

Levell snorted. "Under the Soviets, most Ukrainians were treated as third class citizens, something less than human. Abusing them made the Ruskies feel better about their own sorry asses. After the USSR dissolved, most Ukrainians were able to move on with their lives and better themselves in honest work.

These guys who work for Laski are something else entirely. They did the Ruskies’ dirty work, and don’t give a flying fuck for an honest day’s effort. They’re ruthless, conscience-free, and cheap. Exactly what a scum-sucking pig like Laski would need.

Whelan nodded, but didn’t say anything.

How did you know Case recognized you?

Right after I got out of the truck, the driver of the limo and his associate appeared to get some kind of information on their earbuds. The driver said something along the lines of me being ‘one of Levell’s people.’ Case must have guessed I was on my way here.

Levell rubbed his cheek again and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Whelan. Case, that old sonofabitch, must still have had decent eyesight in spite of his decadent lifestyle. Did you speak to him?

Wasn’t much time. Whelan stood and picked up the attaché case and held it out toward Levell. But Harold had this with him. Might contain worthwhile intel.

You’ve done well, Levell said. Now, let’s have a look at what Harold dug up on you and the others. But we’ll have to be quick about it. Case was an asshole, but a well connected one. His killing will set off a shit storm. Add to that the number you did on the three muscle heads. The Feds will be combing through this neighborhood for days. We’ve got to get you out of here, and fast. He reached for a cell phone on his desk.

5 Hart Senate Office Building

About one mile east of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, in the shadows of the Capitol, was another massive, multistoried structure, the Hart Senate Office Building. Named for the late Senator Phillip Hart of Michigan, it was home to the offices of fifty senators, three committees and several subcommittees. Among the several structures of the United States Capitol Complex, it was the farthest from the Capitol Building, but one of the nicest. It featured a ninety-foot high sky-lit central atrium bridged by walkways on every floor. In the center of the atrium on the first floor was a massive statue that reached upward fifty-one feet into the open space. One of the late Alexander Calder’s final efforts, the towering abstract piece combined black aluminum clouds suspended above black steel mountains.

Howard Morris didn’t like the statue. He thought it was pretentious. He didn’t like the atrium either. It was like the Senate Gallery—filled with common people.

Morris enjoyed a large, seventh floor corner office with a killer view of Capitol Hill. Despite that, he had arranged his desk to face the door that opened from the office of his assistant, Janine, leaving his back to the windows. He liked to see who was entering his presence. The office had been tastefully furnished by one of the most expensive and sought-after interior designers in the city. Although members of Congress had certain budget constraints on the furnishing of their offices, Morris was savvy in the ways of the federal bureaucracy. He had spared no taxpayer dollars in establishing an oasis of comfort and luxury for himself.

Besides, he believed he’d earned the privilege. Serving his fourth term in the senate, Morris was the chair of the select committee on intelligence. He also chaired a special subcommittee probing Central Intelligence Agency covert operations. The subcommittee’s existence was considered a matter of national security and few people knew of it.

He had come to the office early, expecting Harold Case to provide him with the elements of a huge story; one that would further erode the myth of American exceptionalism. It would show the citizenry that their nation’s position of global dominance had been built on intrigue and black ops savagery rather than any unique qualities. That would further weaken America’s global standing as well as its ability to avoid the formation of a single world order. It also would strengthen his base on the far left and gather more support for his planned, but as yet unannounced, bid for his party’s nomination for president. To his dismay, he’d discovered from the morning news that Case indeed had produced the elements of a huge story, but it wasn’t the one Morris had expected.

He felt his anger and frustration rising. He stood, strode from behind his massive desk, and began to pace nervously back and forth across the thick, plush carpet. As usual, his feet were beginning to ache. He was several inches short of average height, and sensitive about it. The orthotics he wore to add stature came at the price of comfort. His endless tour of the Beltway cocktail circuit had added more than a few extra pounds, but was largely disguised by the work of a talented tailor. The very expensive, bespoke suit coat he wore masked his narrow shoulders. It was made of charcoal gray silk, and he had paired it with a pale pink shirt and pink and gray rep tie. He ran a hand through the long gray hair that he wore brushed straight back. Morris noticed the back of his hand looked paler than he preferred and made a mental note to apply a new coat of the tanning gel at the first opportunity.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. Senator, his assistant said. Mr. Jenkins is here.

Good, send him in, Janine. He walked back to his desk and stood behind it. A moment later, the door opened and a tall, lanky black man walked through it. He was wearing a long-sleeved yellow cotton shirt with a solid navy blue tie and navy trousers and carrying a heavy overcoat. He nodded to Morris. Senator.

Morris waved Shepard Jenkins, his chief political strategist, toward one of the overstuffed leather client chairs. Shep.

You heard about Case, I presume, Jenkins said.

Shit, by now, everyone’s heard about him. You know anything that’s not already been on the news?

Not yet, Senator. My concern right now is how anyone could have known what he was up to. We’ve kept this strictly on a need-to-know basis. Other than the two of us and Case himself, who the hell else could have known?

Maybe the sonofabitch had a loose lip. He was a self-aggrandizing bastard, Morris said. My biggest concern is the loss of the information he was gathering. Now what do we do? Give up on this project?

Dunno, but that’s certainly one option.

Morris didn’t like the sound of that. He tugged nervously at the collar of his expensive shirt and stepped away from the windows. Jesus, it was supposed to be so simple Do we even know whether Case found those old records from his days with the Agency?

Whether he did or he didn’t, I’m guessing that’s what got him killed, Jenkins said.

Of course that’s what got him killed! Morris said. If only I could have gotten my hands on those fucking files and released them to my contacts in the news media. The ensuing shit storm would have played well on the left and likely elevated me as the party’s frontrunner in next year’s presidential campaign. Assuming that pompous, arrogant fuck-up of an incumbent doesn’t try to stand for reelection. Laski keeps assuring me that he won’t, but I’m not convinced the sonofabitch intends to step aside.

He walked around the desk and sat in the other client chair. You’re my fucking strategist. What do we do now?

First, we stay calm. Then we figure out whether anyone else knows about what Case was doing and whether they might be able to trace it back to us.

Morris shook his head in despair. They assassinated the sonofabitch. Fucking assassinated him. Laid in wait and ambushed him.

Along with three presumably capable bodyguards, Jenkins said. Whoever is behind this is pretty damned good. The dead guys were part of Chaim Laski’s private army. Did you know that two of the bodyguards were killed in hand-to-hand combat?

Slamming his fist down on the desktop, Morris said, I don’t give a flying fuck how they died. They clearly weren’t worth a shit at protecting anyone.

The intercom on his desk buzzed again. He shouted angrily at it. What is it, Janine?

A courier is here with a small package of some kind, she said. Should I sign for it?

Morris stiffened in fear. Was it a bomb? Were the same people who had killed Harold Case going to assassinate him next? The day had barely started and already it was rapidly worsening.

Senator? Janine said.

Who sent it? he said at last.

Janine said, A Mr. Case.

6 Georgetown

In the hours following the early morning incident in Georgetown, SWAT teams of FBI and local law enforcement officers began conducting a house-to-house campaign. Branching out concentrically from the scene of the incident, they searched each house and surrounding property. Farther out, police cars patrolled the neighborhoods looking for anything or any person of a suspicious nature.

Shortly before eight o’clock, a brown Ford Econoline 350 box truck pulled to the curb in front of Levell’s home. Its markings indicated it was a delivery vehicle for a chain of appliance stores. A man climbed out on either side of the cab. They were wearing brown work uniforms, jackets, and brown ball caps, all bearing logos that matched the one on the side of their truck. They went to the front door of the home and spoke to Rhee for a moment, then returned to the rear of the truck and raised its roll-up gate. One of the men climbed into the cab and backed the truck into the driveway. Rhee opened the garage door from inside the house.

The men wrestled a Frigidaire 19.7 cubic foot commercial deep freezer from the back of the truck to the hydraulic liftgate. Lowering the freezer to the street, they maneuvered it onto a heavy-duty four-wheeled dolly, then rolled it into the garage. Rhee closed the garage door behind them.

Approximately ten minutes later the garage door reopened and the deliverymen rolled an older looking deep freeze out to the truck. As they loaded it onto the hydraulic liftgate, a police cruiser with two cops in it rolled to a stop in front of the truck. The deliverymen glanced at each other and kept moving.

The officer driving the car rolled his window down and said, Morning, men. Kinda early to be working so hard.

Yeah, well a job’s a job. We got no say in what gets done or when, the truck’s driver said.

You guys seen anything that don’t look right to you in the neighborhood this morning? the cop said.

Like what? said the truck driver.

Well, like any fuckin’ thing that don’t look right.

The truck driver looked at his partner. I ain’t seen nothin’. What about you. You seen anything?

Nah, I ain’t seen nothin’ either. But I wasn’t exactly lookin’ for nothin’. It’s fuckin’ early, it’s cold, and I ain’t exactly wide awake yet.

The cop turned and looked at his partner, who shrugged. He turned back to the