Rielly had already removed all of her jewelry and as much other makeup as possible. She knew that the less attention she attracted to herself the better. There had already been two men who had had their noses split wide open, and there was another woman who had been slapped so hard on the side of her head that her ear had started to bleed. Rielly kept repeating to herself, "Just keep a low profile, and you might make it out of here alive."

Less could be said for Rielly's new office partner. Stone Alexander, who was sitting at her side. He hadn't wandered more than several feet from her since the onset of the attack.

Not that he was protecting her—if anything, it was Rielly who was protecting him. Alexander leaned closer to her and asked, "How long are they going to make us sit here?"

Without moving her lips, Rielly whispered, "The only thing I know is, if one of these guys sees you talking, he's going to come over here and crack his rifle over your surgically altered nose… So for the last time, shut up."

Alexander shrank away and dropped his head onto his folded hands. He had already cried twice. Pathetic, Rielly thought to herself. Her father had always said people show their true colors in a crisis, and Alexander had shown his. It was yellow.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone new enter the room, and she glanced up at the man, careful to keep her head down. Rielly had not seen this one before. He looked different from the others. He was wearing the same green fatigues, but his hair was well styled and he lacked any facial hair. Rielly noted that the man was actually quite handsome.

That was when it hit her. It was the same man that Russ Piper had introduced her to. A Prince somebody or other. Oh, my God, Rielly thought. Where is Russ? With her head down Rielly scanned the mass of people, looking for her parents' friend. Piper was nowhere in sight, and she could not remember seeing him since this morning.

Rielly scrutinized the man again. This man was the leader.

It was obvious by how the others spoke to him and looked at him. When this supposed prince had entered the room, the other three terrorists had done everything short of snapping off salutes. The bald terrorist, who Rielly had originally thought was the leader, entered the room and approached the prince. He began whispering in the leader's ear, and Rielly instantly noticed a change in the prince's eyes.

RAFIQUE AZIZ STOOD with a demeanor that looked to be teetering between confidence and rage. As Muammar Bengazi whispered in his ear, the scales began to tilt in favor of rage. Aziz had known this moment would come.

The fact that he had already played it out in his mind a hundred times would not take away from his performance.

Bengazi finished relaying to his friend the information that had been requested. Without hesitation, Aziz yelled, "Where?"

Bengazi pointed to a hostage sitting near the edge of the group, and then followed Aziz as he walked briskly toward the man. Aziz stopped five feet from a man in a white shirt and loosened tie. Pointing to the man, Aziz asked Bengazi, "Him?"

Bengazi nodded.

Aziz looked down at the man and commanded, "Stand!"

The man did as he was told and rose to a height several inches taller than Azizthe man looked to be in his early to mid fifties with short brown-and-gray hair. In a voice loud enough to make sure everyone heard him, Aziz asked, "You have a request?"

"Ah," the man started out somewhat nervously, "we have a pregnant woman in the group, and several other people who are older. I had asked… ah… your man"—the White House employee pointed to Bengazi—"if we could get some blankets and food for…"

Aziz cut him off with a loud, "No!" The man took a quarter of a step back. "But"—he gestured with an open hand to a woman on the floor—"she's pregnant."

Aziz looked at the bulging stomach of the woman on the floor. She was lying on her back with her head resting on an older woman's lap. Without taking his eyes off the expectant mother, Aziz slid his right hand to his thigh and found the grip of his gun. He pulled the pistol from his holster and turned to the man standing before him. Without saying a word, without the slightest expression on his face, Aziz raised the gun to the man's forehead and, from a distance of one foot, pulled the trigger.

The loud crack of the gunshot caused everyone in the room to jerk involuntarily. Before the report of the gun had died, the man was propelled backward and into the huddled mass of hostages—his blood, brain matter, and skull fragments showering a half dozen shocked individuals.

As the room erupted, Rafique Aziz turned and marched for the exit. His cold expression masked a perverse satisfaction in completing another chapter in his plan. Aziz left the room to the noise of his men screaming at the hostages. As he walked down the hall to the Situation Room, a smile creased his lips.

When the time came, the hostages would give him no trouble.

From this point forward, they would be as docile as a flock of lambs.

AS THE CHAIRMAN of the Joint Chiefe, General Flood was the highest-ranking officer in the U.S. military. The size and opulence of his office, located just down the hall from the Joint Chiefs briefing room, was fitting for a man who wielded such power. The walls were covered with photos and plaques that documented his rise through the ranks of the Army. In typical military fashion the show was arranged in order—starting in one corner with a photo of a young plebe at West Point and then documenting his ascension through the ranks until he reached his current and final post.

The room was set up in thirds. At the far end was a rectangular conference table that seated twenty. In the middle of the room was the general's substantial Thomas Aquinas-style desk.

The expansive wood surface curved so the desk literally wrapped its way around the general's healthy midsection. This allowed Flood to swivel in his chair and go from project to project without having to exert too much effort.

The last third of the office was dominated by an assortment of couches and chairs arranged around a long glass coffee table. Mitch Rapp sat in one of the chairs facing the office's entrance. General Flood's aide had escorted him into the room almost thirty minutes earlier. Since then, Rapp had been eyeing an expensive bottle of Booker small-batch bourbon that was sitting behind the general's well-stocked wet bar on his right.

Rapp was tired and edgy. He hadn't worked out in almost a week, and since he was used to putting in at least two hours a day, six days a week, his body was rebelling. The sleep he had gotten had been minimal, the food had been awful, and now it had all come down to this. His expertise was being called into question by someone who had been teaching law students for the last decade while he had been putting his ass on the line. Rapp had never felt such frustration. Aziz was right across the river, sitting in the White House, and there was nothing he could do about it but sit and wait.

After another ten minutes or so. General Flood returned to his office.

He was accompanied by Rapp's two bosses and General Campbell, the commander of the Joint Special Operations Command. Rapp stood to meet them and tried to get a read from Director Stansfield as to whether he was going to have him taken out and shot. Rapp quickly realized it was a futile effort. Trying to gauge Thomas Stansfield was like trying to read the expression of the Sphinx. The longer you observed the more you thought you saw. But in reality you saw nothing.

In the case of the Sphinx, it was because there was nothing, but in the case of Thomas Stansfield, there was a lot.

General Flood began to undo the gold buttons of his military blouse almost immediately.

"Well, Mr. Kruse, you sure as hell caught a lot of people's attention in there." Flood pulled his jacket off and threw it over the back of one of the chairs.