"Where are you going to go?"

"I'll let you know," she said in a tone that left much doubt whether she meant it.

Alex started to say something but instead rose and walked out, his features clouded and his lips set in an uncompromising line.

Annabelle slammed the door behind him. She sat down cross-legged in front of the fireplace and studied the blackened bits of Stone's final message to them. Tears trickled down her cheeks as in her mind she went through the letter's contents again.

She glanced toward the door. Alex and she had become very close over the last several months. When they had heard of Gray's and Simpson's murders they both had instantly suspected the truth. Yet they hadn't said anything about their feelings, afraid perhaps that if they did acknowledge that they believed Stone had killed the two men it would make that suspicion an intractable truth. Now their two very different interpretations of the man's perceived actions had just driven a wall right between them.

Annabelle packed her few belongings, locked up the cottage for what she was sure would be the last time, climbed in her car and drove to a nearby hotel. She got undressed and climbed into bed. She would be moving on now. There was nothing to keep her here any longer. With Oliver gone, her father dead and Alex revealed to be something other than what she thought, she was alone once more.

It seemed to be her natural state.

Good luck, Oliver Stone.

Annabelle was very sure of one thing. He would need all the luck he could get.

Maybe they all would.

JOE KNOX WOULD HAVE preferred to have been back at his town house drinking a beer or maybe even a couple digits' width of Glenlivet while sitting in front of a toasty fire and finishing reading his novel. Yet here he was. The chair was uncomfortable, the room cold and ill-lighted, the waiting unpleasant. He eyed the opposite wall but his thoughts were far from this place.

His tour through Roger Simpson's murder scene hadn't taken all that long. Like his former boss at CIA, Simpson had still been sitting in death, only with him instead of a car seat it was a ladder-back chair in the kitchen that was now all mottled with the dead man's blood. The shot had come from the unfinished chunk of construction across the street. The hour of execution-for Knox was certain that's what this was all about-had been an early one. And eyewitnesses had been in damn short supply.

The only item of interest, really, had been the newspaper. Simpson had been shot right through that morning's edition of the venerable Washington Post, taking the round smack in the chest. As had been the case with Gray, most snipers aimed for the brain as the gold standard of all possible killing shots. Sure, you pack the right ordnance and a torso hit would also likely be fatal, but the head shot was like a faithful dog in a professional killer's world because it just never let you down.

So Gray in the head; Simpson in the chest. Why?

And why through the newspaper?

That had really bothered Knox. Not that having to penetrate the few pages would've screwed the shot, but the shooter would've had to more or less guess where his round would impact. And what if Simpson had had a thick book on his chest, or a cigarette lighter in his breast pocket that the paper had concealed? That could've fouled the shot. Most snipers Knox had known didn't like to guess about anything other than who they'd kill next.

Yet when he'd examined the paper he understood quite clearly why the chest shot had been used. A snapshot of someone had been taped to the inside of the newspaper. The shot had taken the person's head in the photo right off. As Knox looked more closely, the remaining part of the picture showed the torso to be that of a woman. There were no marks or writing on what was left of the photo to help him figure out who it was. He'd talked to the paper carrier to see if he'd seen anything suspicious, but he hadn't. And Simpson's building didn't have a doorman. Yet the killer had put that photo in the paper, Knox was certain of it.

And that meant only one thing. This hit had been personal. And the killer had wanted Simpson to know exactly why he was going to die and also who was doing the deed. Just like the flag and grave marker with Gray. His grudging admiration for the assassin increased even more. Gauging the shot accurately enough to take out that picture required remarkable skill, planning and simply a level of confidence that not even most professional sharpshooters possessed.

He'd instructed the medical examiner to let him know if anything showed up in the wound that was out of the ordinary. They almost certainly wouldn't be able to reconstruct the burned bits of photo now plastered into the senator's chest cavity by a high-velocity rifle round. But one never knew. Knox understood from experience that it was the little shit that brought most criminals down.

He straightened up and stopped thinking about gunshots and dead men as the sounds of the footfalls trickled down the narrow hall toward him. There were two men, both in suits, and both carried equally grim expressions. One of them held what looked like a large safety deposit box. He set it down on the table with a loud clunk. It gave added gravitas to a situation that didn't really need any more, at least to Knox's thinking.

The older man was very tall and broad with a crown of thick white hair. Yet he was also weathered and beaten down by innumerable crises spread over decades. There were no safe harbors here; the hitch in his step, every wrinkle on his face and the bow in his shoulders bespoke that essential truth. His name was Macklin Hayes, a former army three-star who'd matriculated to the intelligence side a long time ago, though his ties to military intelligence, Knox understood, were still strong. He had never heard anyone refer to the gentleman as Mack. It was just not something you'd ever consider doing.

Hayes nodded at him. "Knox. Thanks for coming in."

"Didn't really have a choice, did I, General?"

"Do any of us?"

Knox waited, choosing to say nothing in reply to this.

"You understand the situation?" Hayes said.

"As much as possible considering the short time I've been on this sucker."

Hayes tapped the lid of the box. "The rest is in here. Read it, absorb it, memorize it. When it's all over, you are to forget every last bit of it. Understood?"

Knox slowly nodded. That part I always understand.

"Any preliminary thoughts?" the younger man asked.

Knox didn't know this gent and wondered why he was even here. Perhaps just to carry Hayes' goody box. Yet he'd asked a question and probably expected an answer.

"Two executions performed by one sniper who knew his business, probably ex-military with some kind of grudge and he wanted Gray and Simpson to know it. He left the grave marker and flag for Gray and a photo of a woman taped to a newspaper for Simpson. He shot the senator first and then came to Maryland to nail Gray, probably before word of Simpson's murder got out and Gray was forewarned."

"You're sure not two shooters?" queried the younger man. "And you're certain of the sequence?"

"I can't be sure of anything right now. You asked for my prelim, there it is."

"Escape? He couldn't have left by any road. He would've been seen."

Knox hesitated. "Off the cliff."

Hayes spoke up. "Apparently you're not the only person to suggest that."

"Who was the first?"

"Read the file."

A burn developed in Knox's gut but he held his tongue on that command. "Did Gray say anything in the days leading up to his death?"

"He was involved in something about six months before he was killed. What exactly is so classified even I haven't been allowed a full briefing. Gray, as you well know, was a man who kept things very close to the vest. And he was in the private sector at the time, so that also limits what we know. It's a bit muddled to say the least."