Harris nodded. That was child's play for Wicker. He could hit this shot from almost double the distance at five knots.

"What about the glass?"

"It's half an inch. I've shot through it before on the range." Wicker continued his confident stare, eyeballing the White House with his naked eye.

"That's the range; this is real life. We need to know how old that glass is, the manufacturer's testing data, everything we can get our hands on."

Wicker kept his eyes on the White House, supremely confident in his skills—knowing that there were only a handful of men in the whole world that matched him in skill, and none that could exceed.

"The glass was installed in ninety-two and is due to be replaced within the next year. I studied the manufacturer's testing data two years ago and have all the info I need right up here." Wicker tapped his temple with his forefinger.

"If that glass was brand-new, I could still do it, but it's been baked by the sun now for seven years. Its strength has been reduced by at least sixty percent. With two fifties we'll be able to drill right through it." Wicker nodded confidently and added, "Hell, the first shot might even get him."

Harris was a little surprised that Wicker already had the stats.

"How did you find out about the glass?"

"I called some of my fellow snipers at the Secret Service."

"When?" asked Harris.

"Two days ago." Wicker kept his gaze on the White House.

Harris smiled. He loved it when his men were proactive.

"Vbu've been thinking about this shot for that long?"

Wicker turned, a devilish grin spreading across his lips.

"I've been thinking about this shot ever since we ran that exercise eight years ago."

Harris knew the exact exercise Wicker was referring to. It had been on his mind since the onset of this entire cluster fuck.

Slowly, Harris began to nod. And then with a smile of his own, he looked to Wicker and said, "Don't ever tell anybody that.

The boys at the Secret Service might not understand your professional curiosity."

"Oh, they understand." Wicker nodded.

"We've talked about this shot a hundred times."

The "boys at the Secret Service" that they were referring to were the men of the counter sniper unit, widely regarded as the best professional shooters, from top to bottom, in the world. There wasn't a single shot at the Secret Service that could match Wicker under combat conditions, but in a controlled urban environment, they were awesome.

Harris looked back at the White House. Snipers were a weird lot. Kind of like goaltenders in hockey or pitchers in baseball. They were loners, fiercely independent, and more than a little superstitious.

"What do you need to make it happen?"

Wicker pulled several pieces of paper from his vest.

Unfolding them, he held them up for his CO.

"First thing we have to do is build a shooting platform With the right men and equipment, I can have it ready by sundown."

Harris looked at the drawings.

"What about the noise?"

Wicker reached over and flipped to the second page.

"We place a top over the platform and line it with acoustic foam. We leave a nice narrow slit at the front, and we're set. Only about five percent of the report will make its way out of the slit, and that won't travel more than a block, tops."

Harris loved that Wicker was ahead of the game. Handing Wicker the drawing, he slapped him on the back and said, "Good job. Slick. I like it. Make it happen as fast and quiet as you can. Get out of your coveralls, and tell the rest of your boys to wear their civvies."

Looking at his watch, he added, "I want you operational by eighteen hundred."

With that Harris started down the hatch, confident that Wicker would have everything in place by the appointed hour.

Now came the hard part. He would have to convince the big boys that an exercise he had participated in eight years ago would work today. Harris already had the pitch formed. He would keep it as simple as possible and use SEAL Team Six as the tip of the spear. Delta and HRT would provide the overwhelming force when the time was right.

THE WORDS WEREN'T going to come easy At least not at first. Anna Rielly was both a proud and a stubborn person, but she was not, as Rapp thought, an ingrate. Milt Adams had closed the door to the stash room, and Rielly was left facing the man who had saved her life.

As Rielly looked at him, she decided she liked him much better when he smiled. In his current serious mood, he looked dangerous. Not just his dark clothes and the various weapons strapped to his lean body, but his chiseled jawline and those dark eyes. The man had an intensity about him that Rielly hadn't noticed before. His tanned weathered face had the strong lines acquired by a man who does not spend his days in an office.

It was the eyes, though, that both drew her in and made her want to shiver. Dark pools of brown. So dark they were almost black. Framed on top by two thick eyebrows. This was the man who was capable of killing.

The man who had plunged his knife into her assailant.

Rielly's mouth must have been slightly open because it was suddenly void of moisture. She closed it and swallowed hard; then opening it slowly, she said, "I'm sorry for the way I handled that situation earlier. I don't want to seem like I'm"—she paused, struggling to get the next word out—"ungrateful."

Rielly had to look down. It was difficult to look into those dark eyes and make the apology.

"I'm not crazy about signing anything. Especially something the government wants me to sign." Rielly looked up and made a halfhearted effort at a smile, but the dark orbs on Rapp's face turned her gaze back down.

"I realize this thing is a lot bigger than me, and if there is anything I can do to help save the rest of the hostages, I'm more than willing to do my part. As far as what happens when this is over… if you wish to remain anonymous, I will honor that. If you feel, or whoever you work for feels, that you need to edit my story before I tell it…" Rielly was forced to pause again, feeling very uncomfortable with this particular concession.

Still looking at the ground, she said, "If you really feel the need to edit out material that you are absolutely sure is too sensitive to report… I'll go along. I'll probably do it kicking and screaming, but I'll do it."

Rapp was conflicted. His opinion of the young and attractive Ms. Rielly had already been etched into his mind and filed away. Now it appeared he might have been mistaken. She had been wrong, but now she was correcting that, taking a big step to humble herself and admit it. The ball was back in Rapp's court. HER ELBOWS RESTED heavily on the table. The hum of computers, faxes, scanners, and monitors droned in the background. The control room at Langley was in the midst of a lull.

Kennedy's hands cupped her chin, and her eyes were closed.

Opening her eyes, she looked at the red digital clock on the wall. It was almost half past noon. She let out a yawn and stretched her arms above her head. Things were about to happen.

She had felt it herself and seen it in the look Thomas Stansfield had given her.

The light on her phone blinked once and then began to ring. She grabbed the handset and answered, "Dr. Kennedy."

"Irene, it's Jane. I've been busy trying to get an answer to your question, but things have proved a little more difficult than I thought."

"How so?"

"Well, the subject is not entirely with us."

Kennedy frowned.

"Will he be coming back?"

"No." There was a substantial pause and then, "At least, I don't think so." Then in a slightly defensive tone Dr. Hornig added, "You must remember, this is all new, very cutting edge stuff."

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"From what little I could gather, Harut had no idea what this Yassin fellow's talents were. But please keep in mind, he's not all there."