To Die For

By Ray Ronan

"Ray Ronan, a new name to contend with." - Marc Eliot, author of books such as Charlton Heston: Hollywood's Last Icon. American Titan: Searching for John Wayne. To the Limit: The Untold Story of the Eagles

"To Die For is truly scary." - International bestselling author, Glenn Meade.

"If you love Michael Crichton's futuristic visions, you will love To Die For. If your favorite pastime is to kick ass with Jack Reacher or Jason Bourne, Lynn Clarke will keep you turning the pages to the very last, final twist..."

Lynn Clarke is priceless, hunted, and lethal

The legal trading of human organs has become a rich and powerful industry. No organ-transplant company is more powerful and leading-edge than Zarus, headed by a corrupt blood-lusting CEO with his own bizarre plans for the future of the human race as a commodity.

Lynn Clarke is Special Agent In Charge on the Presidential Protective Detail. She despises the legal trade in human organs, not because it now saves lives, but she sees it as selling yourself, your soul.
Ironic, considering she had spent her life dedicated to protecting others. But she doesn't see it that way.
Until now.

When details of Clarke's extremely rare blood type are leaked to Zarus—a blood type so rare only a handful in the US match their most precious client, Zarus enlists a corrupt Washington elite and foreign ex-special forces mercenaries to take her. Clarke becomes a prize sought by wealthy clients in order to prolong their own lives. She will not go down without a fight.

Forced to defend herself with violence while fighting for her very being in the highest court in the land, her fate will affect every citizen because they could find themselves nothing more than a resource to be taken piece by piece.

Clarke will have to decide on turning her back on the only life she knows and loves, to become something she herself would defend against.
To save her country, Lynn Clarke must first save herself.

Get your copy of Lynn Clarke's thiller, To Die For, now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Ronan
• Release date: Dec 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005891435

Ray Ronan

'Ray Ronan, a new name in Thrillers.' -Glenn Meade, Best Selling author of Snow Wolf, Brandenburg and many more.Hitchcock said the trick to suspense was not just about placing a ticking bomb under a table, the suspense came by not ever letting the bomb go off. I hope I’ve managed to follow his advice!Writing and reading is an adventure best shared and that’s with you dear reader. Some writers put out a book in 3 months. I don’t, neither does my co-author Glenn Meade. Like him, I take a year or more. I love to melt fact and fiction, history and present. That takes time and research, which I enjoy. Follow my books across a city, or through a house like the enigmatic Whitemarsh Hall.My books may not be mainstream, but I’m not either. I want to reach out to readers who enjoy the same places and bomb ticking situations I do.That said, there are over 2 million publications on Amazon and obscurity is the enemy of creativity. AND.. Reviews good or bad mean I’m not alone in this mad pursuit of stories and helps spawn future books. I do have 2 more paranormal thrillers ready to roll but GIVE ME A PUSH, LET ME KNOW YOU WANT THEM and I’ll get the others out there online for you. Repeat, sign up! Join me on my quest for readers I can work with, who’ll suggest crazy ideas and keep me up at night...Life has given me a deep well from which to hydrate my writing. Come with me, read on and see where it takes us...Ray

Book preview

PART ONE

LORD OF THE HARVEST

Prologue

El Camino Real, Los Altos, California

Charlie Paulson had signed a contract for a better life, not a shorter one. One bad turn after another, however, had reversed Charlie’s cash flow. With his pride packed away for later, he pitched up at an organ brokerage in the hope of earning some well-needed cash.

The day Congress legalized organ trading in America, the world changed, and so did society’s view of what happened to your body after death. The economy was booming with the influx of cash too.

As Charlie signed the contract, he told himself it was no big deal, he’d signed over the rights to his organs, in fact, most of his body, so they could use it in the case of his death to improve and save the lives of others. Nothing new there. The difference was, it was no longer just the medical profession that made money from an organ donor’s gesture of goodwill. The donor, Charlie, got paid too, in advance. In some cases, a lot of cash if you were of a rare blood type.

Charlie discovered that day that he was very rare. His eyes lit up when they told him how much he was worth to them, especially when they confirmed the bank transfer.

At that moment, his heart fluttered.

He had delayed signing up to the brokered human organ system, calling it the ultimate subservience, a form of voluntary slavery, and an open invitation to the grim reaper. And because of this, his unremarkable medical history had gathered dust for a decade in a distant county. However, the moment the sample drawn from Charlie’s veins hit the analyzer and he was identified as a rare tissue and blood type, an alert flashed across monitors at the headquarters of Zarus, the leading organ trading company.

They offered him a financial deal that would more than pay for four years of college, with a good deal left over on which to live a comfortable existence during it.

To the brokers, Charlie Paulson was a rare commodity, in the extreme. To Charlie, it was a lottery win. At twenty, mortality was a distant problem, at least half a century away. With a plump new bank account, he moved to the campus in El Camino Real.

It was dusk, that time of the day when lovers of the day would head for home, and when lovers of the night would be ready to move out onto the streets. Charlie was neither and felt comfortable moving in the light or dark, unthreatened in this neighborhood.

As he stepped out of his apartment, down the steps to the street corner, halfway between two street lamps, Charlie didn’t see the figure rush out at him from where it waited. Only one month had passed since he signed that contract, only one month to enjoy his newfound financial freedom as practiced hands executed a steel stiletto strike to his neck, just above the hairline and into his brain.

A distinct carbon fiber bracelet secured to his wrist identified him as an organ vendor with Zarus, the leading company. The expert was indeed an expert. There was no immediate indication of foul play. Such was the skill of the execution that it would only be revealed with an autopsy.

San Francisco PD authorized paramedics to expedite the removal of his body from the scene of his sudden death at the corner of O’Connor Lane and Campus Drive.

Hospital Nunc Vitae, situated on Miranda Ave, two and a half miles from the place of Charlie’s death, specialized in organ harvesting. Within thirty minutes of his arrival, surgeons had separated him into multiple parcels. His kneecaps and other skeletal items remained on the West Coast, where clients waited, the majority of his vital organs medevacked halfway across the continent to rendezvous with just one anonymous recipient for incorporation into their new host.

The autopsy was said to have taken place during the procedure, and by the time it was discovered that Charlie had been murdered, the organ broker system had already dispatched the parcels.

By the time they were done with Charlie, his cold cadaver was reduced in weight by two-thirds. Those responsible for his processing placed ballast inside the coffin for the benefit of whoever carried his remains to the grave.

A half-dozen friends buried him alongside his deceased mother and father. The brokers at Los Altos, a subsidiary of the dominant organ trading company, Zarus, paid for the service.

It was all part of the deal.

One

United Nations Building, UN Plaza, New York

Special Agent in Charge, Lynn Clarke, gripped the frozen rail and considered her options. A bitter wind chilled her exposed skin, numbing her jaw and lips, making it impossible to hold a commanding conversation, just when she needed to.

The Atlantic tide sucked at the icy waters of an already impatient East River that raced past in peaks and valleys, tossing two US Coast Guard boats about like toys as they kept their watery vigil over the United Nations building.

Inside the new General Assembly Hall, hundreds of dignitaries, representatives of Earth’s seven billion people, would later convene. Today, only a select few were meeting to debate a subject Clarke abhorred. The man she was assigned to protect, the Nigerian Health Minister, was inside discussing the UN’s position on the human organ-transplant industry, spawned right here in the United States.

She turned to the rookie agent at her side. Most men enjoyed looking into her deep brown eyes, but he avoided her glare. It was a shame; she’d warmed to the guy the moment she’d met him. He had doe eyes, with a muscular build. And he was ten years younger than her. If only. The fact he was her subordinate was another issue. Fruitful love affairs and fine men were as rare as a day off from her workload. Her career had gone in the right direction, but in doing so, she’d laid waste to her feminine skills of enticement and seduction. Despite natural good looks that turned heads, especially when they saw her badge and her gun in its holster, she scared most men off with her toughened presence, appearing as though she were damaged goods. But it wasn’t that, it was pure neglect of her feminine side. At least that’s how she saw it.

For most of her life, this career was her only love, and she’d fought her way onto every rung of that ladder, yet, with one man, Sean Moore, a special agent with the service, she’d come close to wanting to risk it all for a family. Two years into their relationship, she’d been sent on a tour to prep a presidential trip to the Deep South of the US.

The whole event was plagued by security issues and killer humidity. It left her exhausted and unprepared for the tell-all note she’d discovered in her future husband’s car. A simple heart and a kiss on the back of a hotel napkin gave her all the direction she needed to make a few breathless phone calls, all the while terrified of confirming what her head told her was true but her heart denied.

Special Agent Sean Moore was no longer so special in her eyes.

As the cutting breeze bit at her cheeks, a familiar and unwelcome knot twisted in her gut. That same knot had overwhelmed her in the past and came close to ending her career. As time went on, she discovered Moore had not just strayed for a night or two, no, her live-in boyfriend was involved in a long-running betrayal.

It had hit her like a truck. The bastard’s affair had shredded her heart and murdered her trust in life itself. The blow to her confidence and self-respect was nothing like she could ever have imagined, indescribable to anyone who hadn’t experienced such a thing in their lives. Betrayal by a lover was the great equalizer and crossed all levels of society and culture. No one was immune. The biggest trees could be felled with an axe, and she’d learned fast that a lover’s betrayal could crush the toughest of the tough. It could bring out tears in football players, even military commanders. Cleopatra had broken Mark Anthony with her manipulation, for God’s sake.

It had brought her to her knees, and she’d thought long and hard about bringing Moore to his knees.

Clarke steeled herself against the flashback and stared down the rookie, focusing on the job at hand. She had survived, become stronger. Yeah, she was over it.

I have a small team for this detail, she spat. Of which you make up a whole quarter. A gust bit at her face. It had to be four degrees below, with a Baltic chill factor. This winter was starting to be a bitch.

She looked at the rookie through watering eyes. Fifteen years in the Secret Service. In that time, the rot had set in. As far as she was concerned, Jimmy Rakestraw was a product of that rot. He’d displayed such blatant disrespect for a protectee.

I apologized, even though I don’t believe I acted unprofessionally, Ma’am.

"You eyed the minister in such a contemptuous manner you were only short of blowing bubble gum in his face. Construed as either disregard for your protectee, arrogance, or perhaps racism. Take your pick.

There are two reserve agents bored senseless over on First Street. Tell me why I shouldn’t call up a reserve now and have you offloaded?

Because I apologized.

If only you could apologize to the Nigerian Minister. He’s no fool. This is the Secret Service. You have no opinion about your protectee. You do not consider their political leanings. You do your job. It isn’t just the protectee who depends on you for their life. The rest of our team are relying on you to watch our backs. Can we?

Rakestraw’s face reminded her of a teenager under duress from an overbearing parent. The difference was, she had no plans to mother him.

Mothering, dear God, and two days ago she’d wanted to rip his clothes off. Shape up, or I swear you’ll be analyzing bogus banknotes for the rest of your career. The threat got his attention.

She cupped her hands and blew hard in a vain attempt to defrost her frozen lips and her heart.

I’ll add this, you disrespected me last night with your jibes about female agents. The only reason you were not shitcanned is that I’m used to it. You don’t impress anyone and you’re not mature enough to see it.

A flash of contempt passed over Rakestraw’s face. It gutted her. A recruit and already the attitude.

He’d requested a transfer to Clarke’s Presidential Protective Detail, PPD, and she’d elected to evaluate him during the UN session. Now she wondered if it was only because she’d been so attracted to him. She was the one who’d acted unprofessionally, but hell, she didn’t get out much.

Don’t get your meat where you make your bread, she’d reminded herself. She’d since wrote it on her forehead and had a fridge magnet made up online. Sean Moore had sent her a photo of a pair of panties with those words printed across the front of them.

After they had broken up.

If you want to make it onto the PPD, I suggest you perform as though our protectee is the President of the United States. You will imagine that an attack on him would be an attack on you and all you stand for. You might have friends in high places, but right now I stand between you and success. Cross me again and you are done. Got it?

Yes, Ma’am.

Let’s go.

Clarke was in her mid-thirties and knew when she was being duped by a young upstart. She’d done her best but suspected her words had slipped right over Rakestraw and were now drowning in the East River. Three hours later, a steady stream of dignitaries departed the General Assembly Hall. Secret Service cars transferred protectees to their various hotels and airports. Vehicles departed UN Plaza in an organized flow, with congestion avoided at all costs, a stationary car was a sitting duck. Over an hour passed before Nigerian Health Minister, Benedict Unaegbunam, exited the building.

Becoming a head of state or a dignitary did not bestow statesmanship, nor did it make one appear distinguished, those deportments took time and effort, but Minister Unaegbunam ticked all the boxes. A tall, handsome man, he gave Clarke a smile of gratitude as she escorted him to the two brute force Chevy four-wheel drives, their engines idling and hot air circulating within.

Two

United Nations Building, UN Plaza, New York

Lynn Clarke’s long auburn hair was tied up in a ponytail that hung down from under her fur hat. With a heightened, but controlled level of stress, she escorted the minister to his car amid snow flurries that threatened to slow the pace of those vacating the UN building. The heat of two hundred rumbling vehicles lined about the circle of UN Plaza did little to warm the look minister Unaegbunam gave Rakestraw. His message was clear, and it sealed Clarke’s decision. The rookie had screwed up. Upon their return to DC, she would not only have to reject his application for the PPD but strip him of his protection detail status. She hated it and hated him for putting her in this position. A PPD career was over and done before it began. He’d end up chasing counterfeiters for the rest of his days. Not a bad job, but not what the young man wanted. It was his fault, but she still had a horrible knot in her stomach. She hated being a weapon of this mode of punishment.

Clarke rode shotgun, with Rakestraw driving. Unaegbunam and his male assistant, Aliki, sat in the back, while the third agent drove the follow-up vehicle, with a female Nigerian government staffer and journalist for company. Cradling an MP5 submachine gun in her lap, Clarke radioed the minister’s designated codename.

Fastball, on the move.

NYPD officers held back the flood of traffic within Manhattan. First Avenue, the priority route for all delegates out of UN Plaza, had its one-way traffic flow reversed for the occasion toward the south and the Long Island Expressway. Security, although heavy, was not to the magnitude of a full UN assembly, where between fifteen and fifty vehicles escorted each head of state, depending on their importance and risk factor. Today, only two NYPD patrol cars were assigned to each delegation, one in front, one behind, with four motorcycle outriders taking up point and rear. With lights flashing, but sirens off, the powerful V8 engines of the service cars rumbled smoothly as they swung out left onto East 42nd Street.

Clarke felt exposed with the half-baked rookie. She needed people she could depend on with her life, and he wasn’t one. With the Queens Midtown Tunnel closed to all other outbound traffic, she would feel happier when they entered its confined but secure space. She glanced to her right, where a fixed bed delivery truck caught her eye. It took mere seconds for her to recognize the threat, but it was enough of a delay to matter.

Stop! she shouted.

Rakestraw stomped on the brakes but was too late to avoid a collision. The truck broadsided the lead patrol car, crushing it up against a pillar support from the FDR East River Drive running overhead. Clarke’s car smashed into the side of the truck and airbags exploded from every direction.

She recovered fast.

Back! Back! Back! she shouted. To their right was an empty lot, surrounded by a chain-link fence. On their left, blocked off by a concrete median, was the FDR service road and the ferry terminal.

The follow-up car had managed to avoid hitting them and was now reversing at speed. They would expect Rakestraw to do likewise. Rakestraw slammed into reverse and gunned the engine. A patrol car screeched in to help cover them. The headlights spit glass as twisted metal ripped itself free of the side of the delivery truck. Clarke spun in her seat.

Down! Down! she cried. Oh, Jesus, brace yourselves! The massive bucket of a construction site loader smashed into them, shattering the bulletproof windows. The deflated airbags were now useless, with shrieks of pain echoing after the impact.

The mighty V8 engine roared as Rakestraw nailed his foot to the floor, but the tooth bars running along the top and bottom of the bucket held the vehicle immobile in its jaws. Tires searched for grip and then squealed as the car was dragged sideways across the tarmac. The loader moved at ferocious speed, its engine deafening as it smashed them into the two-foot concrete barrier. Both wheels on the driver's side of the V8 ripped away with a bone-jarring wrench. The strengthened chassis held out as the car flipped over and the loader smashed them through the weakened concrete.

Clarke fell on top of Rakestraw, who tried to push himself up and away from the driver’s side windows as weblike cracks spread across them. Her two protectees, in panic mode, shouted above the noise of scraping metal, screaming engines, and rapid gunfire. Horrified, she realized the only things between their car and the icy, fast-moving East River were the flat decking timbers of the ferry pier.

She scrambled for the MP5 and, kneeling on the seat, shoved her head out through the smashed passenger window. The loader’s driver was protected by a metal grill that pinged and sparked as bullets struck the cab. Clarke let off a rapid burst, and glass condensed into tiny shards from the heavy rounds as the inside of the driver’s cab exploded into red as if struck by a giant paintball. But the construction vehicle didn’t stop. They were now on the pier. She dropped back into the car, whipped off her shoes, and locked eyes with Rakestraw. You wanted on protection detail? she yelled. Now’s your chance!

Time was up.

They burst through the timber rail, the car spinning, and crashed, inverted, through the water’s surface, the impact like hitting a brick wall. The weight of the armored car was now a liability as it sank, what remained of the shattered window disappearing as deathly cold water gushed into the cabin. Clarke gasped and took one last breath before being submerged.

Sounds were warped and amplified in the watery darkness: the creaking of the battered car, the hissing, and cracking of a drenched engine and exhaust. She pushed herself toward the rear seat, grabbing what she hoped was Rakestraw’s shoulder to ensure he was still there. Hands groped at her and she grappled with who she thought was Unaegbunam. The minister risked drowning them both if he fought against her. The water grew darker as they sank deeper and her ears popped with the pressure. She kicked, aiming for the rear passenger window, praying it wasn’t the side facing the riverbed because, when the car struck bottom, it would crush them. As she pulled the struggling body with her through the darkness, she hoped she was moving up, the person in her grip fighting with her to reach the surface.

She kicked hard. Her lungs burned. It wouldn’t be long before they’d open up due to reflex and drown her.

They surfaced. Like a newborn, she drew painful but wonderful breaths. She turned to see who was in her grasp. The minister didn’t look good, but he was alive and in control, not trying to save himself by climbing on top of her. Rakestraw surfaced with a loud gasp, an unconscious Aliki in his arms, the river still trying to claim them, their limbs freezing and growing sluggish. They didn’t have long. They’d fallen within the confines of two piers and so hadn’t drifted. But now the digger hung overhead and people shouted warnings from the dock about the possibility of it falling in on top of them.

Rakestraw panted and huffed as he struggled to pull Aliki along with him. The noise of an outboard drowned him out when a Police Rib coasted to a stop beside them. Hands reached out and dragged them to safety from beneath the tottering loader.

Clarke and the others lay on the Rib’s deck while lifesaving foil blankets were wrapped about them. Barely conscious, she shivered as someone placed an oxygen mask over her mouth.

Ma’am? a paramedic shouted to her, trying to be heard above the noise. She peered up at him. You did a great job at getting these guys out of there. She turned her head toward Rakestraw, and he returned her gaze. She smiled at him, overwhelmed with relief and pride.

Three

Hospital San Jaime el mayor, Guatemala City, Guatemala

Byron Ferdman, CEO of Zarus, looked down at the blood-soaked sheets on the operating table.

At this recently acquired hospital, six brand-new operating theaters were dedicated to Zarus, and those procedures were best kept from the scrutiny of United States Authorities. Ferdman had undergone one such rejuvenation transplant on a table right here in Guatemala only a week ago, a heart valve, kidney, and several blood vessels showing signs of misuse. They weren’t failing but weren’t functioning fully, either. Such was the simplicity of transplants, like an oil change. He didn’t ask, nor did he want to know the donor. If he was to have one moral code for his most needy and influential organ recipients, why should he have another for himself? He had to walk the walk.

Due to return to the US today, he couldn’t resist coming down to the surgical arena before leaving.

As he scanned the bloodied instruments and the detritus of what was, on the one hand, a high-tech and futuristic medical wonder, while on the other no more than skilled butchery, he felt pride in the work. He slept soundly knowing he and his staff were saving and improving lives by the multitude every day. But that wasn’t why he was in this room, and it wasn’t why he stood on the heads of many to rule supreme over this medical spearhead.

Any facilities owned or leased by his company were so used to his visits they no longer tried to corral him into sterile operating theaters while avoiding the bloodied rooms. His pertinent questions, appreciative handshakes, along with a pat on the back, especially for the surgeons and their assistants, encouraged loyalty. But that was simply a welcome side-effect and not his motivation. The reality was far removed from their perception.

If the diluting, misdirecting of moral and legal constraints, was a strategy played by governments and adopted by big business, Ferdman was a master.

They were about to clean theater four after completing a procedure when he strolled in as casually as if he were calling in to visit with friends. They knew who he was and left him to inspect the room.

He looked around. A dirty business. Very dirty. Animal.

The smell of blood stirred him. From the pair of bloodied tables, he assumed two humans had lain here. One on the path to a new life, a fully paid-up recipient. He didn’t care to know about the other.

When he pulled at the sheets, they slid with a sucking sound from the still fresh blood. This was natural selection. Darwin at his best.

His chest rose slow and deep, as though in meditation. Spiritual, it was that too. Less than an hour ago, two souls had fought here and one had lost. At least that’s how he liked to see it, despite the fact the outcome was preconceived from the beginning.

His cellphone rang, echoing through the sparse room, startling him. He pulled the device from his pocket, checked the caller, and then cleared his throat of the saliva his ravenous thoughts had produced. Senator Chancey, how are you? Feeling like a new man?

No, Ferdman, I feel like shit.

Ferdman closed his eyes. I don’t understand.

You don’t get it. I feel sick to my stomach.

Ferdman shook his head. He shouldn’t have given in to Chancey’s demand. To want to know the identity of your donor could be understandable, but never, in the medical profession’s point of view, desirable. In this case, it was a young student, Charlie Paulson, who’d provided the senator with multiple organs for his transplant. Depersonalization of the vendor was crucial. As far as Ferdman was concerned, every one of the millions of organ vendors on his company’s books was a human resource. It was all business.

I advised against this, Senator. I think you should call McKenzie. He’ll set you up with therapy.

Therapy, my ass. Nobody warned me about this.

About what?

My body feels great. Amazing, if anything, but not mine. I feel like a goddamn passenger. And I’m aggressive, and that certainly is not me. The old man was suffering from survivor guilt. I’m abroad right now, Senator. But I think we should meet on Friday. In the meantime, call McKenzie.

The senator hung up without replying.

Ferdman had been driven to dissect the human mind and, he believed, he’d attained a level that allowed him to not only understand it but control it.

He tapped the phone against the bed, his eyes distant. The torrent of transplant patients had brought with it an avalanche of issues, among them psychological problems experienced by bereaved vendor families and the clients themselves. Guilt for living on at the expense of someone else was a notion Ferdman found ridiculous. The death of the donor was not attributable to the recipient. Well, not normally, and in the senator’s case, he wasn’t told otherwise. Ferdman had no such guilt over the young man’s death. It was for the greater good and ordering it had been justified. The senator was a vital piece in the puzzle, Ferdman’s rock in congress. Saving lives en mass was his aim.

Chat shows couldn’t get enough of the hybrid question. What was it like to feel the pulse of someone else’s heart inside you? To live and share your life with someone else’s body part? To be a hybrid? The accounts were increasingly bizarre.

There were stories of Memory Transference, which reminded Ferdman of the ghost in the machine. Stories such as the young girl who, after receiving a transplant from another young girl who was murdered, experienced moments of terror and paranormal visions. Ferdman equated it to the ’60s, when stories of alien abductions and visitations gripped America and then the world, mostly from lunatic fringes grabbing for attention. However, he couldn’t quite explain how the girl had used her visions and experiences to help the police track down and identify the murderer. Inexplicable. He chose to ignore it.

Still, if these bizarre urban myths were affecting such an important client, then it was cause for concern. Another worry, was Chancey doubting the cause of death of the young man? There was no way the senator would be able to discover the truth, Ferdman’s people had seen to that.

He speed-dialed his chief of security. Good evening, Mr. Ferdman.

Olander, everything is running smoothly at Leesburg?

As you left it, Mr. Ferdman. How was your procedure? Olander’s Scandinavian accent highlighted every syllable.

Like having dental work. Wish I could say the same for Senator Chancey. He’s suffering from postop stress – donor guilt, who knows? Keep an eye on him, but treat him with care.

Done.

Ferdman snapped his fingers at the janitor who’d ventured into commence cleaning the room. The man lowered his gaze and reversed out. Alone again, he muted incoming calls and slipped the cellphone back into his pocket. His other hand hovered over a pool of congealing blood, a shiver of excitement rushed through him.

***

For the flight home to Leesburg, Ferdman had the private jet to himself. The two flight attendants left him to rest and spent their time sitting in the galley reading magazines. He tried to sleep, but the call from the senator played on his mind. How best to play Chancey? Solving these kinds of problems was his greatest skill, one finetuned at Quantico Naval Base in Virginia as a civilian contractor, training naval officers and the Marine Corps in the art of psychological warfare. After that, a top position in the State Department filled him with political ambitions, until he’d spotted upcoming legislation, a bill toyed with for years, one that would allow the trading of human organs.

Using insider information and contacts built over years of networking from Quantico and neighboring DC, he’d ensured Zarus started at the head of the pack before joining the company. Destroying many careers on the way up, he’d used and abused his psychological qualifications and military strategist skills, fomenting boardroom slaughter until landing the job he’d yearned for: Chief Executive Officer.

The legalized trading of organs was a step forward for society. A concurrent bonus for Zarus, medical advances meant you could also swap new for old in your aging or ailing body; they called it rejuvenation transplantation.

Organ transplantation, a lifesaving procedure, has only been in use for the last few decades, with varying levels of success. The biggest hurdle was the body rejecting those new organs as foreign invaders, resulting in damage, potent failure, and even death. But new medical advances, such as DNA altering drugs, or retroviruses, meant only a couple of rare blood types had major problems with rejection.

The human race had become one big recycling source and, because of that, Zarus was now the richest company in the United States. Its meteoric rise dwarfed Apple and Facebook. Ferdman sold insurance to those in fear of organ failure later in life, a growing problem among the population thanks to the crappy diet enjoyed by western society.

If you needed a kidney, and you weren’t a paying member of Zarus and its ancillaries, then you waited, often plummeting to the depths of the endless list until you died. Plain and simple. It was never marketed that way, but that was the reality and the dog in the street knew it.

It was a cash cow. If you were healthy, clean, and passed all the rigorous tests and background checks, then you could, under the new law, presell your organs to the highest bidder, and that bidder was invariably Zarus.

There was nothing like the fear of mortality to entice people to spend money, and nothing like money to tear the remainder away from their fear of recognizing their mortality. Ferdman exploited both ends of the spectrum.

He had the power to bypass organ brokerage protocol, prioritizing organs for certain influential clients.

The aircraft’s satellite phone shrilled beside his bed, waking him from his fitful sleep. Calls were only put through here if they came from a select few.

Ferdman, he tried to say with some vigor, but it came out as a groan. The dull rumble of jet engines confused him and, for a moment, he thought he was still in the hotel. The returning voice cut through his stupor.

What are you doing about finding me a client? The tone was icy, threatening.

He recognized the unmistakable voice and bolted upright, his sudden shortness of breath invasive over the crystal-clear satellite link. Certain men existed in this world who could still influence the future of Zarus, and this was one of them. Sir, we could find you a client from India or such within a short timeframe, but I cannot vouch for their history, never mind the difficulty in transporting them intact and covertly.

I do not need to remind you of the implications should I fail to get the transplants I require, nor the impact this will have on you and your industry.

We will find you a suitable vendor, Sir. One that will appear one-hundred percent legitimate.

An imperative. Count time in weeks, Ferdman. Click.

To clear the remaining fog from his mind, he ordered coffee from the flight attendant, though he didn’t need it. His heart pounded and, for the first time, he noticed a tremor in his hand. He put it down to adrenaline but was unable to convince himself that it wasn’t due to the less than a veiled threat from his most important client.

A client, he reminded himself, who could destroy the whole industry overnight.

To save a life and an industry, and by the only means he knew of that satisfied his growing blood lust, he had to take a life. But whose life would it be?

Four

Executive Office Building (EOB), Washington, DC

Clarke was not surprised at the lack of movement on Executive Street and the area within the grounds of the White House. Everyone associated with operations was taking a well-deserved breather while the President vacationed at Camp David. Everyone, that is, but Brad Mettam, Clarke’s superior.

Commendations and congratulations from the service regarding her performance in New York were a distant memory. It was now situation normal and Clarke, steeling herself for another ass-kicking, couldn’t help fixating on her superior’s clenched jaw. Mettam was the Director of the Presidential Protective Division, the PPD, a man devoid of emotion and the rod up everyone’s ass for over four years. He was due to move up the promotional ladder.

Clarke looked across the table at him, seeing not the man but the seat, the position. She believed she could make a difference and turn back the clock on all the bad deals the Secret Service was passing on to its agents. Morale was at an all-time low and she wanted to improve the lot of her colleagues, make it an agency they could be proud of. And now she was close, very close. Her actions during the attack on the Nigerian minister had to stand to her.

Boring you, Agent Clarke?

She sat upright; her face appropriately grim.

I need a good man to take on John Meyers’ old job.

I can’t think of anyone offhand, Sir, she said.

You’re the one I had in mind.

She held her breath. What was this? Was Mettam trying to sideline her? With all due respect, Sir, I’m not interested.

We need someone to maintain standards.

You need a spy.

I don’t care for your tone or your cheap label. Standards are the key ingredient of the agency’s operation. This, not a spy job, it’s oversight.

Quality control, Sir? Everyone and his dog feel they are entitled to a protection detail, and so we have fewer agents to deal with more protectees. Our agents are too busy to complete the required firearms training and our equipment is third-rate. The President’s Counter Assault Team was cut in half years ago,

See! My point exactly. You have a feel for what needs to be done. I want someone out there with an ear to the ground.

Clarke eased out a breath as she studied Mettam. You’re playing me. You want to put me under the ground. She blinked, pushing back her anger, not wanting him to see it in her eyes. The indifference of her superiors regarding the concerns of agents frustrated her. Homeland’s accountants ran the damn place now, they ran the whole world. Sure, the quality of protection wasn’t what it used to be, and it created unacceptable exposure for protectees, but she wasn’t going to bite this bullet and take what was generally acknowledged to be a career death wish. She’d be a standards’ cop, marking off the performance of her colleagues. It would kill not only her relationship with them but her, too. She had her eyes on the vacant spot Mettam’s departure was soon to create, and he knew it. He had plans for that spot, and she was going to have to fight for it.

Meyers retires in a few weeks due to ill health.

Clarke gritted her teeth. It was the job that had made him sick. I’d like to make my wishes clear, Sir, that I’m not pursuing that position.

I need that post filled. If there are no suitable applicants, I will reassign someone. Mettam’s nostrils flared. That is all.

As Clarke closed the door behind her, a dozen agents looked up from their desks. This was the PPD operations center and was known as Room 10. The cramped offices were like any other busy administration, with a difference, the Vice President’s offices and residence were directly above, while the White House was right next door.

A captain from the military agency running the White House Transport Division, who was waiting outside to meet with Mettam, stood to greet her.

Good to see you. Under the circumstances. He looked out at the floor of Room 10. They’ve all got money riding on your promotion, but I bet Mettam’s trying to put you forward for Meyers’ old job. He’d raised his voice above the growing noise level.

And here I was feeling all warm and fuzzy.

He resents you, Agent Clarke, and your effortless rise up the ranks. You’re breathing down his neck, for Christ’s sake.

Fifteen years of effortless rising?

There are people here who’ve done nothing but gather dust for fifteen years. Not you. Mettam thinks you’re after his job.

Director of PPD? Come on, I like my life and the little time I get to enjoy it. She wasn’t going to reveal her ambitions to anyone.

Those guys there, the captain gestured toward a once again busy Room 10, are not only betting, but hoping you get the promotion to Director. They could do with a break, and someone to fight their corner in H Street, that’s for sure. Either way, watch your back with Mettam.

You overestimate him. Anyway, he’ll be transferred soon.

Yeah, and rest assured he will step out of this pond with one foot on your head.

She shrugged and walked away.

***

Clarke slipped on her black coat and exited the side entrance onto East Exec, stopping to greet a senior police officer she knew. She passed a moment in idle chatter and, while doing so, noted she didn’t recognize the Secret Service agent at post-standing duty nearby. Redeployment to the White House sounded plush, but post