Coleman and Stroble continued to study the jackets and shared the important details they found with Hackett. None of what they read surprised them. It was not uncommon for retired Special Forces types to work for Langley both officially and unofficially.

Hackett eyeballed the plane's instruments and checked to make sure the autopilot was functioning properly. As his eyes danced over the dials and digital readouts, he said, «As usual, the Culinary Institute of America is not giving us the full story.» Hackett was not a big fan of the CIA and liked to refer to it by the name of America 's most well-known chefschool.

«And what makes you say that?»

«If this is such an easy op, then why are they sending us? Why not send a couple of their own people out to Colorado, or, better yet, why not call them on the phone and bring them in?»

«I never said it was going to be easy. Stansfield told me something didn't feel right about this one, and that's why he called us.»

«Did he tell you what in the hell these two did to get into hot water?» asked Hackett.

Coleman looked to Stroble first and then to Hackett. «Do you guys remember Iron Man?»

Hackett's eyes opened wide, and Stroble let out a nervous laugh. «How could I ever forget him?» answered the latter. «He's a one-man army.»

«Fuckin' James Bond,» mumbled Hackett.

«Well, the Jansens» – Coleman held up the folder that had been in his lap – «were working with Iron Man on a very delicate operation. Apparently, things didn't go off as planned. The Jansens reported that they had nailed the target, but Iron Man had been lost.»

«What?» asked a disbelieving Stroble.

«The Jansens were on the run and didn't have time to get into details, but they reported that Iron Man is dead.»

Hackett shook his sun-bleached blond head. «Back to my original point. I still don't see why they need us.»

«Because Stansfield has conflicting information about whether or not Iron Man is still with us.»

«I'm not sure I understand,» said Stroble.

«Stansfield couldn't get into it other than to say that he has other sources who say Iron Man is still alive.»

«And,» added Hackett, «this op was run without the official knowledge of the president and the Congress, and that's why they called us.»

«I would assume that's the case.» Hackett, continuing in his pessimistic mood, said, «Well, I just hope we don't bump into Iron Man while we're out in Colorado. People have a habit of dying when he's around.»

Coleman took the file and slapped it across Hackett's chest. «People used to say the same thing about us. Read this, and try to relax. I'm telling you right now, this is not going to be a big deal. We'll move slow and cautious, all right?» Hackett nodded and took the file.

Looking out the window of the jet, Coleman's thoughts turned to a night several months ago. He had been at an Orioles baseball game with a date when he'd bumped into an old friend and his wife. They were sitting out in right field, having a beer and a hot dog. When the old friend went to introduce the other couple they were with, Coleman almost dropped his beer. There, sitting across the table, was someone he hadn't seen since he'd left the SEALs. At first he wasn't sure. Not at something as benign as a baseball game. But at second glance he knew it was him. He could see the recognition in his eyes. They were the darkest, most alert eyes he had ever seen, and they belonged to a living legend in the world of black operations. Coleman had seen him operate in the field twice and had heard others utter his name with a shake of their heads. He was at home in almost any city in the Middle East and much of Europe. He was perhaps America 's best assassin, and there he was sitting at a baseball game with a beautiful young reporter. It was almost too surreal to believe, but it was him, and now they were about to cross paths again.

Michael O'Rourke was tense. As tense as he'd been in several years. He clutched the leather steering wheel of his Chevy Tahoe with white knuckles, and as his eyes peered ahead, his mind searched for answers. He adored Anna Rielly. There wasn't much not to like about her. She'd been his wife's best friend since college, and she'd been a good one. They had been elated when she called the previous spring to tell them she was going to be NBC's new White House correspondent. That elation lasted less than a week.

On Rielly's first day at work, she had been caught in a terrorist attack that had almost cost her her life. A dozen Secret Service officers and agents had been killed in the attack, and in the ensuing drama that unfolded, Bill Schwartz, the president's national security advisor, was killed as well as his secretary and several others. The hostage standoff was ended after a bold takedown by the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team. At least, that had been the story reported in the press.

As a member of the House Select Committee on Intelligence, O'Rourke was privy to information that even his fellow representatives were not. The official position taken by the White House after the hostage crisis was that SEAL Team Six and other counterterrorism units were used in an advisory role during the crisis and nothing else. Other counterterrorism units was code for Delta Force – the Army's ultra-secret Special Forces unit. The Pentagon still refused to admit the group's existence, even though it was the focus of dozens of books and several feature-length movies.

O'Rourke knew that the Pentagon's Special Forces units had played a much bigger role than just advising. They had both been involved in the takedown, and the SEALs had actually lost two members. In the interest of keeping the right-wing nuts from going ballistic, the FBI's HRT was given the full credit for the bold and successful operation.

As O'Rourke looked back on the dramatic events that had unfolded the previous spring, it occurred to him that it wasn't long after the White House crisis that he and his wife had been introduced to Anna Rielly's new boyfriend. O'Rourke hadn't noticed it at first, but as they spent more time with him, he started to see little things. Every time they went out for dinner, he would suggest some off-the-beaten-path location, and he would always sit facing the door. On the few occasions where this hadn't been possible, he would spend a fair amount of the evening looking over his shoulder as new patrons would enter. The way he carried himself, the way his eyes were constantly taking inventory of his surroundings – Liz hadn't noticed it, though she had with her own husband. Michael O'Rourke was a former Marine, and, like many leathernecks, he wasn't known for his subtle ways.

The difference between Rapp and O'Rourke was that Rapp was much smoother. In O'Rourke's mind, his own hyper-awareness served two purposes. The first was to know his surroundings, and the second was to let others know that he knew what they were up to. This helped serve as a deterrent.

With Rapp, there was no attempt to deter. O'Rourke had wondered on more than one occasion if the Syracuse University grad was a spook. He owned a business that allowed him to travel extensively throughout Europe and the Middle East, both of his parents were dead, and he had no ties that O'Rourke could see to the local community other than Anna.

It was in late August when O'Rourke became convinced that Rapp was much more than a computer consultant. They had been at a Baltimore Orioles game with Anna and Mitch when they had bumped into a blast from the past – Scott Coleman, retired lieutenant commander United States Navy and former CO of SEAL Team Six. O'Rourke and Coleman had a colorful history, parts of which O'Rourke wished he could forget.

O'Rourke had seen it in their eyes when the two men were introduced. Coleman, who O'Rourke could easily say was one of the most unflappable people he had ever met, looked as if he had seen a ghost when he was introduced to Rapp. It lasted for a second tops, and then Coleman quickly recovered, but O'Rourke had seen it. Rapp, of, course, showed nothing. Not even the slightest hint that he and the former Navy SEAL had any connection, but Coleman had flinched.