Riley tried to say something in reply, but the pain in his shoulder had taken his breath away. A noise at the door caught Riley’s attention, and he turned just as a huge figure came bounding into the room.

Skeeter. He was followed by a determined-looking Guitiérrez.

Riley managed a weak wave but could say nothing as a cough racked his body.

“Pach! You hold still, okay?” Skeeter said as he positioned a pair of bolt cutters around the chain on Riley’s cuffs.

Riley cried out again.

“What is it?” Guitiérrez questioned.

“Arm’s out!”

“Well, then, hang on, ’cause this isn’t going to be pretty.”

While Skeeter kept an eye on the door, Guitiérrez positioned Riley. Then with a quick jerk that caused Riley to scream and slam the cement with his good hand, Guitiérrez popped the joint back into place.

Riley launched into another fit of coughing.

“Can you walk?” Guitiérrez asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Riley squeaked between coughs.

“No, you ain’t, Pach! Look at your feet! They been beatin’ on your feet?” Skeeter asked.

“I’m fine, Skeeter!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Skeeter said as he picked Riley up and threw him over his shoulder.

“Skeeter, put me down! I mean it, Skeet! That’s a direct order! Put me-” A cough cut off the rest of Riley’s words, but he knew they would have been wasted on the suddenly selectively deaf man anyway.

Delta Team

“Rescue complete! Pull out! Pull out!” Hicks’s voice came over the comm.

Kruse and Johnson each lobbed a flashbang followed by a gas canister to cover their retreat, then sprinted toward the entrance. As they ran through the front door and turned left, they saw Arsdale twenty yards ahead with Musselman on his shoulders. When they rounded the corner, their eyes were drawn to the new, large hole in the rear of the building, out of which poked the last five feet of the cargo van.

They ran on and finally reached the rendezvous site seventy-five yards down the port road. Alpha Team was twenty-five yards behind them.

Suddenly the clacking of an AK-47 broke the air. Gilly Posada dropped. Hicks, who was bringing up the rear, slid down and lay on top of him. As he did, he yelled, “Boomer! Blow it now!”

Matt Logan lifted the safety cap off the detonator, toggled the circuit on, and depressed the trigger.

Twenty-four explosive charges, eight on both the front and the back of the building and four on each of the ends, went off at once with a concussion strong enough to make the waiting team members’ ears pop a football field away. Anyone in or around the building who wasn’t immediately incinerated by the blasts was crushed as the warehouse’s outer walls fell and its roof collapsed.

Kruse and Johnson ran back to where Hicks lay on top of Posada. They each picked a man up and carried him the rest of the way to the waiting vans. As they laid the two men in the back of the first van, they saw Guitiérrez working hard to stem the flow of blood from Musselman’s chest.

Farther back in the vehicle, they saw Riley. His eyes were closed and his head was lying in Khadi’s lap. Scott sat next to him trying his best to tend to some of his former lieutenant’s wounds. At Riley’s feet squatted Skeeter, M4 at the ready.

It would be thirty-six hours before anyone could finally convince the big man to put down his gun and leave Riley’s side.

Thursday, January 22

Department of Homeland Security Headquarters, Nebraska Avenue Complex

Washington, D.C.

There were a lot of things in this world that CTD Midwest Division Chief Stanley Porter didn’t like. He didn’t like French wine. He didn’t like black-tie dinners. He didn’t like designated hitters. He didn’t like his wife’s lasagna. But what Stanley Porter truly liked least in this world were pompous, self-absorbed, shortsighted, bureaucratic dolts like Director of Homeland Security Dwayne Moss.

“All I’m saying is that we’ve got to take some major precautions at the PFL Cup next week,” Porter said, sitting on the edge of his seat. The chair was way too soft and way too deep for him to sit back and still make his point.

“Because some PFL player turned secret agent thinks he overheard something while being tortured? I’d venture to say he was probably hearing everything from archangels to his dead grandmother,” replied Secretary Moss, who was settled comfortably back in his imported Argentine leather wingback chair. His feet were kicked up on the mahogany coffee table that separated the two men, and his chin was resting on the two index fingers extended from his interlaced hands. “I mean, really, Stan, is that the best you can give me?”

“What do you want? Are you expecting an engraved invitation to the jihad party at the PFL Cup? BYOB-bring your own bomb! Mr. Secretary, you know that’s not the way this business is run.”

“Oh, I know all right. I’ve been a professional in this business for twenty-five years now.”

Porter wanted to reply that he had meant the international law enforcement business, not the special-interest-kowtowing, keep-yourself-in-office-no-matter-what, governmental-leech business-but he thought better of it. “What I’m saying is that Riley Covington heard some very specific words from a man who was his best friend for two years. These words led him to believe that the PFL Cup would be the Cause’s next target. He so strongly believed this to be true that it was the one message he secretly communicated in a video, after which he fully expected to be killed.”

“Now, now-as you know, Stan, just because somebody believes something doesn’t make it true. I could believe that the moon was made of mozzarella cheese, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to go there to make a pizza.” Moss failed to hold in a smile at his own witty remark.

Porter looked down at his feet, trying to control his exasperation. When he composed himself enough to look up again, he said, “While that’s a very valid point, Mr. Secretary, it still doesn’t negate the fact that we have a potentially serious, possibly even devastating, situation on our hands.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little overstated? From what I’ve been led to believe, the head and the heart of the Cause were removed in Paris and in Italy. Do we really think that they have the ability to do anything more? Especially when you think of the level of security that is already going to exist at the game. I mean, Sal Ricci would have to be Houdini to penetrate their perimeter. You don’t think he’s Houdini, do you, Stan?”

“No, sir, I do not think he’s Houdini.” But what I wouldn’t give to buckle you into a straitjacket and dump you in a milk can, Porter finished to himself.

This conversation was going nowhere; Porter decided it was time to abandon intellectual integrity in favor of expediency. “When it comes down to it, you are right, sir. The evidence is shaky at best.”

Secretary Moss nodded.

“I’m just concerned about what another attack on your watch might do to your future. People will forgive you for not doing anything to prevent the Platte River attack. I mean, how could you have known?”

“Impossible to anticipate,” Moss agreed.

“But another attack would most likely look really bad. Think of the way your opponents could use that against you if you ever decided to seek higher office.”

Secretary Moss was now leaning forward in his chair. “I see what you’re saying… not that my personal career matters at all to me compared to national security.”

“Of course not.”

“I just wouldn’t want anything to happen to those American citizens in L.A.” He pondered this for a few moments and then shook his head. “But I’m afraid my hands are tied. The president’s declared this a National Special Security Event, so the Secret Service is handling the security for this PFL Cup. And although they are technically under the Department of Homeland Security, they’ve always been pretty much an entity unto themselves. They don’t like me intruding into their area of responsibility, nor do I like to do it.”