The People's Republic of America: The Sleeping Dogs, #7

By John Wayne Falbey

                                                           "The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself." —Sun Tzu

 

A rogue government, out of touch with its citizens, is taking America in a direction its people don't want to go—a "socialist republic" with ruling elites, a huge, dirt poor, powerless lower class, and no middle class. With assistance from High Tech, Big Business, Russia, and China, the government is building an unassailable power base.

The administration believes it's unrealistic to assume one nation can be the "sole superpower" indefinitely—and history bears that out. In its naivety, it adopts the philosophy "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," and develops a tacit understanding with China—a nation with a 4,000-year-old dream of world domination—to create détente and "shared world governance." China agrees but secretly has other plans.

The US administration fears rebellion and wants to eliminate its dissident Citizenry. It asks China to develop a much more virulent pandemic virus than COVID-19, One which is not affected by current vaccines. It trusts China to also provide a vaccine so the administration can inoculate its supporters and essential "worker bees."

The economy is in freefall. inflation skyrockets. crime and violence are out of control. Countless millions of illegal immigrants representing votes for the entrenched administration and cheap labor for its ally, Big Business, flow unimpeded across the southern border. America's enemies gleefully watch and plan as what was once the world's only superpower descends to Third World status.

A small, but effective group of true patriots, hoping to restore integrity and virtue to government, first must stop the use of the virus. The only ones who might be able to do that are a battle-weary group of special operations veterans. The problem is the American government, in cooperation with the Chinese, has sent the world's best assassins to hunt them down and kill them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Falbey Group, LLC
• Release date: Jun 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986258003

John Wayne Falbey

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

Book preview

1

Chapter 1—Dingle Peninsula, Ireland

Hamish Dinwiddie was a professional assassin. Experience taught him that most humans were easy to kill. It also taught him there was a much smaller number of humans who could be more challenging. Some had special training, others had stronger survival instincts. But they, too, were easy prey for a professional killer. Dinwiddie’s experience hadn’t taught him there was a handful of men far more dangerous than he could imagine. His next target was one of these men.

Dinwiddie earned his reputation as a hitman as a teenage gangbanger in Glasgow, Scotland. Through the years, he kept count of his victims—thirty-eight. At first, they were members of rival gangs, but as he graduated higher in the ranks of organized crime, the targets increasingly were people of substance and position. His fees reflected that progression.

Over the past several years, most of his hits had been in large metropolitan areas where his comings and goings easily mixed with the dense population and the twenty-four-seven traffic. He simply arrived, mingled anonymously with the local populace, located the target, eliminated him or her, and slipped away.

This time it was different. Everything was wrong with the isolated village of Dingle, Ireland, his target’s home. It was on a narrow peninsula, and small, with a population of barely two thousand souls. Hell, Dinwiddie thought, the whole damn peninsula had maybe ten thousand people living on it. Hard to lose yourself in such a tight, cloistered environment. The roads were narrow, winding, and two-lane at best. There was no rail transportation on the peninsula. The nearest airport, such as it was, was more than an hour’s drive away in Farranfore on those same narrow, twisting roads. Dingle was a historically insulated environment where everyone knew everyone, and a means of rapid escape didn’t exist.

Because of these conditions, Dinwiddie initially had serious reservations about this job and almost turned it down. What ultimately changed his mind was the size of the fee his handler had negotiated—£100,000, almost $140,000 in American dollars. It was more than double his previously highest fee. At this point in his life, in his early forties, Hamish Dinwiddie was close to his carefully planned retirement. The fee for this job would push him over the top of his financial goals. He could live full time in the restored petit château he and his lover, Lucien Magaud, purchased on a winding cul-de-sac in the wooded hills above Le Rayol, France. Their home dated from the 1840s in the Maison Forte style. The area offered fine dining and splendid beaches, but it was far less popular than nearby Saint-Tropez. Just what he wanted. He and Lucien had named it Villa le Crime Paie, Villa Crime Pays.

Still, this was going to be the most challenging job he’d ever undertaken. Forget about staying anonymous and under the radar. That would be impossible in the tiny port town of Dingle. Under the circumstances, his best entrance would be to act like a tourist and book a room at the B&B owned by his target. Trying to skulk around and stay out of sight would only draw unwanted attention. Besides, staying at the inn could eliminate potential logistical issues.

Dinwiddie’s handler always gathered information and provided a profile of his next hit. This time, his target was a man named Brendan Whelan. The target and his wife owned and ran Fianna House, a B&B on the outskirts of the quaint harbor town of Dingle, Ireland. Outsiders might assume Fianna was the name of a female relative or ancestor of the owners. But Dinwiddie recognized it as the name of an apocryphal third-century band of Celtic fighters led by the legendary warrior, Fionn mac Cumhaill, also known as Finn McCool. The same legend was a part of Celtic mythology rampant in the Scottish Highlands. Glasgow, Dinwiddie’s hometown, was on the southern fringe of the Highlands, and Celtic mythology was part of its history and culture.

The Dingle area was a place, Dinwiddie assumed, whose inhabitants would be prone to Irish mythology and folklore, and likely to accept the prophesied second coming of Fionn mac Cumhaill and the Fianna. After all, according to legend, they didn’t die, but were sleeping in an Irish cave and would awake one day to defend Ireland in her hour of greatest need. That and three quid will get you a small coffee, if you’re lucky, he thought.

The profile also identified the target, Whelan, as something of a local legend. The residents of the area claimed he was far stronger, faster, and mentally quicker than anyone they had ever known. According to local rumor, he had been a part of a small, mysterious commando unit whose other members shared his unique abilities.

Regardless of the mythological codswallop, his handler had urged Dinwiddie to exercise extreme caution with Whelan’s assassination. The plan was simple: check into the Fianna House, where a reservation awaited him under an alias, and stay to himself, avoiding involvement with other guests, but monitoring Whelan’s activity. Ninety minutes after the innkeeper had gone to bed, Dinwiddie would slip into his bedroom. Locked doors were no problem for someone who had the skills to pick them. Dinwiddie would shoot his victim in the head at point-blank range using his favorite weapon, a suppressed Ruger SR22. It had a ten-round magazine and one more in the chamber. The CCI Quiet-22 LR ammo was subsonic and hollow-point. It would bounce around inside the skull, chewing up the victim’s brain and bringing certain death. Fionn mac Cumhaill? Let’s see him survive that!

*     *     *

The train ride from Dublin’s Heuston Station to Tralee took almost four hours. Dinwiddie passed the time drinking tea and reading day-old copies of the Daily Mail and Financial Times. On arrival in Tralee, he took a cab from the small queue at the station and rode to Dingle. The driver took the longer but more scenic route over Conor Pass, regaling Dinwiddie with a pitch that would have pleased the Dingle Business Chamber. Dinwiddie wanted very much to tell the driver to shut up, but didn’t out of fear the driver might remember his discourtesy. He endured the forty-five-minute trip, mostly in silence. The shimmering blue loughs and the lush green fields accented by the lemon-colored rays of sunlight were alluring. But Dinwiddie declined an offer to stop at the top of the pass for a photo op.

When they pulled into the motor court at the Fianna House, Dinwiddie thanked the driver and tipped him. He was used to operating in metropolitan areas and hoped the tip was an appropriate amount for Dingle—not too little, not too much. Again, he didn’t want to be remembered.

The bed-and-breakfast was a two-story structure painted a light shade of gray. It had a dark slate-shingled pitched roof and large mullioned windows. Dinwiddie carried his small suitcase to the double-leaf door set within a small, enclosed portico and rang the buzzer.

Moments later, a man opened the door. He was as tall as Dinwiddie, but much more physically imposing. His body was broad at the shoulders, tapering to a trim waist. His arms and neck bulged with muscles cabled with sinew and thick veins. He appeared to have little body fat, if any. The man smiled with his mouth, but his eyes showed no emotion. He said, You must be Mr. Dalrymple.

The innkeeper’s appearance took Dinwiddie aback. There was something unsettling about him, almost sinister. If this was Whelan, he thought, I should have planned on taking him out with a high-powered rifle from a hillock half-kilometer away. After a moment, he said, Yes. Yes, I’m Harvey Dalrymple. He spoke with a distinct Scottish burr.

Brendan Whelan, the man said and extended his hand.

Dinwiddie took the hand hesitantly, wondering if his bones were about to be crushed into powder. He was relieved when the grip was firm, but not painful.

Whelan appeared to glance at the gang tattoos on Dinwiddie’s wrist and hand, then he stepped back and motioned Dinwiddie inside. Come in, please. Let’s get you registered. He led the way across the hardwood floor of a large living area. The walls were a warm shade of yellow. On the opposite side of the room was a floor-to-ceiling stacked rock fireplace with a thick rustic wood mantel.

Dinwiddie noticed a large, heavy wood bookcase against one wall. Framed photos occupied the spaces between rows of books. Besides Whelan, the photos included a beautiful dark-haired woman and two boys in their early teens. The missus and their lads? He looked around. Are they nearby? A potential complication, but he was being amply paid to deal with complications.

There was a narrow table near the wall to the left with a chair behind it and two more that matched it in front. Whelan motioned at one of the two chairs in front and went around to the other side of the table. A few minutes later, Whelan had registered Dinwiddie, as Dalrymple, and made a copy of his authentic looking, but fake, identification papers.

Whelan showed his guest to his room on the second floor. On the way, he said, Judging by your accent and name, you’re a Scot, Mr. Dalrymple. Where’s home?

In Ayr, it’s a town sixty-five kilometers Southwest of Glasgow.

That’s Lowlands country, Whelan said. From your accent, I would have guessed you to be a Glaswegian. His face was expressionless. His eyes again conveyed nothing.

Dinwiddie appeared to be rattled. You fancy yourself an expert on accents, Mr. Whelan?

An innkeeper meets people from all over the world. Whelan paused for a moment then said, I’ve made fresh coffee, or we have tea if you prefer.

No, I’m fine, thank you. I think I’ll just rest for a wee bit, then perhaps have a look at the town.

Traveling can be tiring, Whelan said. But come downstairs later. We’ll be serving wine and some amazing Irish brown bread at five. It’s traditional Irish comfort food. You don’t want to miss it.

*     *     *

When Whelan left, Dinwiddie locked his door. A rare emotion suddenly overcame him. Longing. And emptiness. And maybe a sense of dread. In all his contracts, all the places he’d traveled to fulfill them, he’d never experienced this before. He sat on the edge of the king-size bed and took a deep breath. His hand shook slightly as he reached for the pendant on a silver chain around his neck. It was a Trinity Knot, its unbroken lines symbolizing the eternal, unending circle of life and love. His lover, Lucien, had given it to him. As his hand closed tightly around it, Dinwiddie felt his heart beating more rapidly than usual. Why? Was it his feelings for Lucien and their relationship? Or was it something else, something more sinister, like apprehension about this, his final contract killing?

He shook his head, trying to dispel the sensation. In a further effort at distraction, he stood and opened his small suitcase. He removed a grey windbreaker, denim pants, a dark blue fisherman’s sweater, and a pair of black Balenciaga Triple S sneakers. The shoes would add at least an inch to his height. He smiled at the thought of being taller than Whelan. Perhaps it would make the innkeeper’s muscularity seem less imposing. To Dinwiddie, that alone almost justified the shoes’ price of nine hundred pounds.

After changing clothes, Dinwiddie repacked his suitcase and placed it in the closet of his spacious and well-appointed room. He slipped into the windbreaker and went downstairs. There were no other guests to be seen, but he heard someone rattling around in the kitchen. Whelan? He quietly exited through the front door.

*     *     *

Brendan Whelan was in the inn’s kitchen when he heard the front door open and close. He knew it had to be the new guest, the Scotsman, Dalrymple. Otherwise, the house was empty. It was the low point of the offseason. His wife, Caitlin, was shopping with her mother in Dublin for a few days and not due to return until tomorrow. He almost felt guilty that he was enjoying her absence. But things were strained since her act of infidelity.

It happened because fate had forced an impossible choice on Whelan. Whelan’s long missing and presumed dead brother Maksym, a man of incarnate evil, had vowed to kill Whelan and his entire family. He’d nearly succeeded.

Rather than hunker down in Dingle and wait for Maksym to find him, Whelan had gone after Maksym. He thought taking the fight to the enemy was the safest way to protect his family. He was wrong.

Whelan left Caitlin and their sons, Sean and Declan, under round-the-clock protection of armed townspeople and Caitlin’s brother Padraig, who was the superintendent of the local office of the Garda Síochána, the Irish national police. The locals were no match for Maksym and his accomplice. They killed Padraig and three of the townspeople. The killers abducted Caitlin and the two sons and held them hostage in an ancient redoubt on the coast east of Dingle. Whelan and his closest friend and colleague, Sven Larsen, also known as the Man with No Neck, tried to rescue them, but Maksym captured them.

Maksym intended to shoot the youngest son first, then the older boy, then Caitlin so Whelan could suffer the agony of watching his loved ones being murdered. It didn’t work out that way. Maksym’s accomplice, a Russian mercenary soldier named Andrei Ulyanin, had a murderous grudge of his own. He shot Maksym in the back, killing him.

Caitlin opposed Whelan’s decision to leave her and the boys for a preemptive strike on Maksym. Afterward, she blamed her husband for losing her brother and the near loss of her sons and her own life. For a while, she hated Whelan with an intense passion and left him for another man, becoming pregnant with his child. She miscarried and, eventually, she and Whelan reconciled, but he felt things were never the same between them. In his mind, her infidelity had destroyed the bond of trust. He wasn’t confident their marriage could ever be the same again.

A tingling sensation on his wrist interrupted his painful thoughts. The special watch he wore signaled an incoming call from Whelan’s mentor, Cliff Levell. Whelan went into the closet-sized office just off the kitchen. He pressed his thumb against a lens-like object embedded in a small wall safe. There was a soft click and the safe door swung open. He reached in and removed a satellite phone.

The phone was a product of a special lab owned by a series of international straw corporations ultimately controlled by three billionaire brothers, Alfred, Hermann, and Tomas Mueller. The lab developed communications gear for the American government’s top security agencies. But what the government got wasn’t the latest cutting-edge encryption technology. The pre-beta stuff went to Levell, and a few carefully chosen others. One of those was Brendan Whelan.

Levell assured Whelan that their encryption methodology was always ahead of the curve. The communications traveled via satellites that were built and operated commercially by another of the countless Mueller enterprises. But the satellites harbored highly encrypted communications equipment accessible only by persons specifically designated by the Muellers. To the rest of the world, the satellites broadcast music for commercial radio operations. But digitally encrypted into the streams of music were the messages transmitted between Levell and the chosen few. The system used a newly developed asymmetric encryption. It was a combination of three encryption methods, used together with a complex hash and a well-protected key. Current technology couldn’t crack it.

Whelan powered up the phone and said, Yeah, Cliff, what’s on your mind?

Levell, as usual, cut right to the point of his call. What are you doing right now? His voice, as always, was raspy and edged with anger.

Sitting in my office, speaking with you. Whelan grinned. He knew the response it would generate.

No, wiseass, Levell said impatiently. It seemed to Whelan that the older man was always impatient; either that or angry as hell. I’m asking you what’s going on around you. Who’s there? Lodgers? Handymen? Strangers of one kind or another?

No, things are slow right now. Caitlin and her mother are spending a few days in Dublin on a girls’ getaway. You know, melting plastic right and left.

What about Sean and Declan?

They’re at that pricy sports academy in Florida.

They still planning to play football at the University of Miami like their old man did?

I can’t seem to talk them out of it, Whelan said, his voice rich with paternal pride.

Are there any other people around?

It’s off-season. There’s only one guest.

Who is it? Levell demanded.

Whelan pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment and looked at it, as if unsure of what he was hearing. He replaced it and said, Since when have you been interested in the innkeeping business, Cliff?

Since I learned that there’s a contract on your head. Eventually, there’ll be a bullseye on the other six Dogs, the Muellers, me, Maureen, Mitch Christie, and others.

Whelan sat bolt upright. Levell had almost no sense of humor. He was a very serious man not given to kidding. Where did you hear that?

From people who are in a position to know. Based on decades of friendship, they felt enough guilt from selling us out to share that unpleasant news with me.

Who the hell wants us dead?

Levell replied slowly and evenly. The United States government.

*     *     *

When Dinwiddie stepped outside the Fianna House, it was a typical Irish day—damp with dark rain clouds gathering to the north above the peaks of the Slieve Mish Mountains, where Conor Pass snaked across the pyramidal-shaped Croaghskearda Mountain.

The Scottish assassin liked to study the area where he’d be operating. He’d read that humans had occupied Dingle and the surrounding area continuously for at least six thousand years. But it wasn’t until the Anglo-Norman invasion in the twelfth century that the port began trading with the European continent. Its broad, deep harbor was protected by a rocky-cliffed inlet only 200 meters wide at its narrowest point. By the sixteenth century, it became one of the largest and most important deep-water ports in Ireland. Today, it was home to commercial fishing trawlers and a fleet of private and rental craft.

The harbor was only a few blocks from the Fianna House, but Dinwiddie could smell the aromas of salt-water and dead fish mingled with the odor of smoke from wood-burning fireplaces and gas and diesel fumes from motor vehicles. He quickened his pace, hoping to complete the business at hand before the wet weather hit. When he reached the harbor area, he quickly found the craft he was looking for, an aging 30-foot pilothouse boat, painted blue beneath the waterline and white above it. There was a smallish man onboard. He had removed the cover and appeared to be working on the engine. His thick brown hair was morphing to gray and curled from beneath a black watch cap. He wore faded denims and a heavy, long-sleeved grey t-shirt.

Dinwiddie stepped aboard and the man stood. Hamish, the man said in his thick Marseillais accent and smiled warmly,

Dinwiddie returned the smile. Lucien. He refrained from embracing his lover, Lucien Magaud. If someone saw them, it could stick in their memory; something Dinwiddie wanted to avoid.

Where is the person you hired to run the boat? the Scotsman said.

He’s getting lunch at a pub and will be along shortly. It’s not important, as you won’t need him until much later tonight.

"This bloke does know the waters between here and Cork?"

Like the proverbial back of his hand. He’s smuggled along this coast for years. You’ll be in expert hands.

And the driver who’ll be waiting at the boat basin at Crosshaven?

Magaud nodded. When I leave here, I’m going directly to Cork to meet with him and give him half his fee. He’s trustworthy in this matter; he’ll be there.

Lucien motioned to Dinwiddie to step into the cramped pilothouse with him. He removed a panel from the wall lining the hull and withdrew a small bundle wrapped in what appeared to be rags. He tugged the cloth away and revealed a suppressed Ruger SR22 with a ten-round magazine in it and an additional loaded magazine. Your old friend, just as you requested.

Dinwiddie took the pistol and inspected it. He ejected the magazine and the round in the chamber, checked to make certain both magazines were fully loaded, then worked the gun’s action. Satisfied, he replaced the round in the chamber, inserted the magazine, slipped the safety on, and stuck the weapon in the rear of his waistband. His windbreaker covered the exposed butt of the pistol.

You’ve checked in and met our target, the proprietor. Any problems? Magaud said.

Maybe. I didn’t see or hear anyone else at the inn, not even his family.

How is that a problem? The fewer people around, the better.

Dinwiddie’s face clouded with a worried expression. I don’t like loose ends. They’re what cause things to unravel, to go south. I want to know exactly who’s around and where they are.

I can’t speak for the whereabouts of the family members, but look around. All you see are locals. This isn’t tourist season, so the inn would normally be empty.

Dinwiddie glanced around the harbor area. There were several empty boat slips and traffic was light on the Sraid Na Trá, the street that ran along the waterfront. I’ll find out soon enough. There’s a bit of a soirée at five.

Magaud smiled reassuringly. Well, then, it seems you’ll soon have your answer.

That’s not the only thing. He scowled at Magaud. This Whelan bloke is a dangerous-looking fellow… big, strong-looking, quite sinister. Have you told me everything you know about him, like what’s his background? Was he a copper? Ex-military?

Magaud briefly broke eye contact. "Well,… he is a mystery. He was born in Ireland but grew up in the States. He showed up in Dingle some years back, married the daughter of the Garda Chief Superintendent for County Kerry. The newlyweds renovated an old farmhouse into the inn, and now have the two boys."

I know most of that, Dinwiddie said impatiently. It’s in the dossier you put together. But what about the ‘he is a mystery’ you mentioned? What mystery?

Again, Magaud wouldn’t meet the other man’s gaze. He fidgeted with an oiled-stained rag, wiping his hands repeatedly. It’s probably nothing, just a meaningless anomaly.

I’ll be the one to decide that. Tell me.

There are parts of his life that are missing.

"What do you mean, missing?"

He was some sort of athlete, American football, I think. He received a scholarship to a university at seventeen, but dropped out after a few months. It seems he disappeared for a time.

How long?

 He showed up in Dingle a few years later.

A few years! Dinwiddie shouted. "Every profile you’ve ever done covers every minute of a target’s life. And you couldn’t find information on where this bloke was, what he was doing for a period of years?"

Please, Hamish, calm yourself. Magaud quickly glanced around the dock area. And please keep your voice down. We don’t want to attract attention.

I don’t give a bloody fig about attention. What else haven’t you told me?

Magaud seemed to hesitate, then said, There have been periods of time in the recent past when he’s… disappeared.

 "Disappeared? Jesus Christ! What have we gotten ourselves into? Who’s our client? Why do they want this innkeeper… if he is an innkeeper, killed?"

You know we rarely discuss a client’s identity, Hamish. It’s not good for business.

Fuck business! This is our last job. Tell me who the client is.

"He called himself Mr. Smith. I’m sure that isn’t his real name. In this business, no one uses their true identity. He sounded Américain."

"You’re former DGSE. What do you know about him?" Dinwiddie’s reference was to the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, France's foreign intelligence agency, equivalent to the British MI6 and the American CIA. It was Magaud’s former employer.

Yes, from my days in the DGSE, I can recognize a fellow spook. I believe this Smith fellow is CIA.

Why is the bloody CIA hiring out this hit? I thought they did their wetwork in-house.

Magaud shrugged. The Yanks have laws that prohibit the Agency from conducting political assassinations, but they’re clever bastards. I’m certain they’ve parsed the language of the law to get around it.

My point exactly. So, why are they using us?

There must be something about killing this particular target they don’t want to come back at them. Magaud grinned, then added, Whatever the case, they are paying us handsomely to do the job for them.

"I don’t know, Lucien. There’s something about this job that doesn’t feel right. We’ve been very fortunate until now. If this wasn’t our last contract, one that enables us to retire to our villa, I wouldn’t do it."

"Indeed, mon chéri, let’s get this last job behind us. Are your plans still the same?"

Dinwiddie nodded. Ninety minutes after Whelan goes to bed, he should be in the deepest slumber of the night. I’ll sneak into his bedroom with the suppressed Ruger and shoot him at point-blank range. If his missus is there, I’ll do her too.

What about the kids?

If I see them or anyone else in the house, I’ll kill them too. I’ve been doing this too long to fuck up and leave any loose ends behind.

*     *     *

Whelan was speechless for a moment. He heard what Levell had just said, but it wasn’t registering. Say again? The U.S. government wants to kill me? What the hell is this all about?

You heard right. The lower forms of life inside the Beltway are finally making their collective move to seize permanent power.

What? Why?

In a word, greed. They fear us, our potential to cause problems for their efforts to solidify their control of this country.

Cliff, I follow the social and political developments in America. There have been signs of this happening for a long time.

Well, it has happened, and our first order of business is to avoid being assassinated. The second is to restore basic freedoms…, such as they were.

Whelan heard the anger mixed with resignation in Levell’s voice. Now in his mid-to-late seventies and trapped in the confines of a wheelchair, the result of an automobile crash several years earlier, Cliff Levell remained the toughest, most ornery man Whelan had ever known. And he had known several. But Levell also was a consummate strategist as well as tactician.

On your first point, survival, I assume you have a plan.

I’m working on one. For starters, we need to get everyone back together. There’s that old adage about safety in numbers.

When and where?                                                                   

As for timing, yesterday wouldn’t have been soon enough. Realistically, I want everyone together no later than a week from today. If you hustle, that should be enough time for you to round up the others.

Whelan had his doubts about the timeframe. He was in Ireland, and the other six members were scattered far and wide. One was in Australia. Seven days was more than a little tight under those circumstances. But Levell was right—if there was a price on their heads, chances of survival were infinitely better as a cohesive unit. I’ll do my best. Where is the meeting?

There’s the rub. All the usual places are too vulnerable, but I’ve found a place, a ‘safe house,’ so to speak.

Safe from the long, über-funded arm of the American government? Is it even on planet Earth?

Save the weak attempt at humor, Whelan. This shit is deadly serious.

Same ol’ Cliff. Whelan chuckled.

You remember my colleague, Maureen Delaney, of course.

Whelan smiled at Levell’s use of the term colleague. Maureen Delaney was chief executive of one of the largest and most successful technology companies on the planet. She also was Levell’s lover, a fact he’d tried unsuccessfully to hide for years. Yes, I remember Mo.

She’s quite well-off financially and owns a second home in a place called Naples. It’s on the lower west coast of Florida.

I know where it is, Whelan said. Could there be anyone who didn’t know of America’s more exclusive and laid-back version of St. Tropez?

We’ve installed layers of security, so we’ll gather there. Your job is to make certain those crazy-ass friends of yours don’t destroy her place. Especially that peckerhead Almeida.

Whelan grinned. I’ll expect extra pay for babysitting.

Levell grunted and said, Are you a wiseass because you’re Irish, or are you Irish because you’re a wiseass? Get real. You could be in the crosshairs right now.

Reacting on instinct, Whelan leaned carefully beyond the doorjamb of his cramped office and gazed around the kitchen. Subconsciously, he slid open the top drawer of his desk and removed a SIG Sauer P226 MK25. The aftermarket magazine held twenty 9mm hollow-point rounds plus another in the chamber.

Levell said, Has anything suspicious happened recently? Any strangers that don’t seem to fit in? Like your current guest?

He checked in today. He’s a Scot and claims he’s from Ayr. But that’s in the Lowlands and he has a Highlands accent, like a Glaswegian.

What’s this guy look like?

Tall, about my height, but much leaner and several years older. Thinning brown hair that’s going gray and a deep scar that bisects his left eyebrow. His papers identify him as Harvey Dalrymple. Whelan paused, then added, He has gang tattoos on his wrist and hand, and he has a weak handshake for a man his size.

A limp wrist, huh? I’ll run this past Mitch Christie. He still has access to the FBI’s database. If we get a hit, I’ll call you back right away. I’ll also arrange transportation for you. It’ll take some doing on my end, but you’ll leave tomorrow.

Before Whelan could respond, Levell disconnected.

*     *     *

Dinwiddie left Magaud aboard the pilothouse boat and walked back to the Fianna House, a half kilometer away. He glanced at