Anna Rielly unlocked the front door of the small cottage-style home. Behind her, the day's final shadows were stretching across the rolling Maryland countryside. She was happy to be out of the city after another hectic week of following the president. When she took the job as White House correspondent for NBC, she I had never fully imagined how much running around it would entail. She stepped into the entryway, setting her black purse and an overnight bag down on the bench to her right. As she hung her coat in the closet, she noticed one of Mitch's draped over the banister and hung it up, too.

Rielly grinned to herself as she started up the stairs. Mitch Rapp had lived alone for too many years. In the master bedroom, she dropped her overnight bag to the hardwood floor with a thump and began working the buttons of her blue blouse. She walked over to the French doors that looked out over the Chesapeake Bay and sighed. Rielly doubted she would ever tire of the view. She adored the cottage – it spoke volumes about the man she had fallen in love with – the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Rielly stripped down to her underwear and discarded her bra with the hope that she wouldn't have to put one back on until she left for work on Monday morning.

She looked out at the bay, enjoying the last reflections of Friday's light, and then glimpsed herself in the closet mirror to her right. At thirty, her body was even better than when she had played volleyball for the University of Michigan. She knew this was in great part the result of a diet that was completely void of junk food, three or four weekly workouts, and, most importantly, her mother's genes. There was one other thing that had added more than a little extra tone in the waning months of summer. Rielly brought her right arm up into a curl and smiled at the definition of her biceps. Then she ran a hand along her rock-hard right thigh and traced a finger along the vertical line that separated the hamstring from the quadriceps. As part of her new commitment to enjoy life more, she had purchased a Mastercraft ski boat back in June. Rielly, a Chicago native, had spent her summers on Lake Poygan in Wisconsin and was slaloming by the age of six. Mitch and Anna had spent a good three months carving up the glassy early-morning and late-evening water of the bay. There was no workout she could think of that could so tire the body and at the same time so awaken the mind.

Anna slid her hands around to her waist and tried to stick out as much belly as her little frame would allow. A soft smile covered her face as she imagined herself pregnant. Her best friend was due in four months, and Anna called to get daily updates. Mitch had whispered his hopes of a baby in her ear on more than one occasion, and she had always responded the same way, telling him that he had his priorities in the wrong order. Marriage came first and then the baby.

Rielly threw on a pair of old faded Levi's, brown leather Cole-Haan slides, and one of Mitch's worn and tattered sweatshirts. After grabbing a black scrunchie from the drawer of the bedside night table, she pulled her brown hair back in a ponytail and started downstairs. Mitch had gutted the first floor of the cottage, getting rid of the dining room and creating a space that flowed from kitchen to eating area to family room. Rielly went into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and then realized she had forgotten her book upstairs. She ran up, got the book, came back down, and went out onto the deck. She stood at the railing for a moment, looking out over the water, savoring the cold beer.

Sinking back into one of the Adirondack chairs, she crossed her legs and opened her book. A coworker had talked Rielly into joining a book club when she moved to D.C. At the time, she thought it would be a good idea. She was looking for ways to restore some normalcy to her life after the tragic events that had taken place at the White House during the first days of her new posting. Now, after five straight book club selections, she wasn't so sure she could handle another novel about a dysfunctional woman whose life was a mess because her father never gave her the attention she deserved. The first month it was great, the second it was okay, the third was tolerable, the fourth barely tolerable, and this fifth was going to be her last try. The group was meeting on Monday night, and Rielly hadn't even had time to read the jacket copy. After a big swig of beer, she cracked the book and started in.

Five minutes later, Rielly finished the first chapter and closed the book. The author had just described in graphic detail how she had watched her father beat her mother to within an inch of her life when she was just six years old. Not another one, Rielly told herself. As she got out of the chair, she decided she would have to miss the meeting on Monday night. Anna headed back into the living room with her beer and put the book back on the shelf. She scanned the CD collection and decided on a live Dave Matthews album. With beer in hand, she began searching the bookshelves for something else. Mitch read a book a week and had built up a big collection of both fiction and nonfiction. After only a few minutes, she hit pay dirt. Nelson DeMille's newest novel sat on the shelf with all of his previous works. She headed for the fridge to grab another beer and then back out onto the porch. One of DeMille's smart-ass, wisecracking heroes was exactly what she was in the mood for.

It was the perfect thing to take her mind off Mitch, where he was, and what he was doing. He had promised her that this would be it. This was his last mission, and then they would go about the business of leading normal lives. Rielly looked out at the calming waters of the Chesapeake with her green eyes and said a quick prayer for Mitch; that he was all right and that he would return to her by morning's first light. Rielly opened the book and started in – determined to lose herself in its pages.

THE SIGNS HAD caused him to rethink his plans. One never succeeded in this business without taking risks, but the trick was knowing how far to push it. If he blew past Hanover, there was no turning back. There would be a one-hour window during which he would be stuck on the autobahn, racing to make it to Essen, where he could ditch the car. If the call went out over police radio, he'd be a sitting duck. Another sign appeared on his right indicating that the exit for the Hanover international airport lay one kilometer ahead.

Rapp was used to operating alone. He had no need to discuss his options with anyone. His mind ran quickly down the list in almost the same way a naval aviator runs down his list of options when an engine flames out sixty miles from the deck of a carrier. There was no reason to panic – it was just a problem to be solved as quickly and efficiently as possible. Rapp checked his mirrors and flipped the turn signal up. As the Mercedes banked through the exit, he pulled the brim of his hat down another inch. Airports were always loaded with surveillance cameras, and after they found the car, the tapes would be reviewed by. Germany 's best counterterrorism experts.

His breathing had calmed over the last thirty minutes. Rapp was pretty confident that his ribs were bruised but not broken. If it were the latter, his breathing would be short and extremely painful. He followed the signs to the parking garage and stopped at the green gate to grab his ticket. To his right, under a large halogen light pole, Rapp noted the tinted bubble of a surveillance pod. Inside the dark plexiglas, he knew a camera was recording his arrival. Rapp rolled the window down and with his gloved hand grabbed the time-stamped ticket. When the gate's arm popped up, he shifted the car into first and started up the spiraled concrete ramp. He passed the first and second levels and pulled into the third. Driving slowly up and down the aisles, he checked for more surveillance cameras and was pleased to discover none. Rapp backed the car into a spot between two other Mercedes and rolled the driver's-side window down several inches. Then, leaving the keys on the floor of the front seat, he got out and left the car unlocked. With any luck, it would be stolen before the police could find it, but he doubted it. Following the signs to the terminal, Rapp intentionally walked with a limp and hunched shoulders. With the brim of his hat down, he kept a lookout for more cameras.