The punch hit him so squarely that Hurley actually went down to one knee for a split second. The turtle move had saved him from getting KOed. If his head had been exposed any further the force of the blow would have snapped his jaw around so quickly his equilibrium would have gone offline, and he’d be down for a nice long nap. The ringside announcer in Hurley’s brain made him aware of two things in extremely quick succession. The first was that he hadn’t been hit this hard in a long time, the second was that he’d better launch a counterattack, and do it quickly, or he was going to get his ass kicked.

Hurley pivoted from his back to his front foot and launched a flurry of combinations designed more to get this kid to back up than actually hit him. The first two were blocked and the next five found nothing more than air. Hurley realized the kid must have been a boxer and that meant he’d have to get him down on the mat and twist him into submission. No more punches. Before Hurley had a chance to regroup, he felt the leg sweep catch him perfectly in the ankle of his right foot, which happened to be bearing about 90 percent of his weight. What happened next was simple physics. The sweep took him out so cleanly that there was no hope of catching himself with his back leg, so Hurley went with it. He landed on his ass, tucked and rolled back and sprang onto his feet. The fact that the kid had just swept him was not lost on Hurley. Boxers did not know how to use leg sweeps. There was a split-second pause while Hurley looked across the mat at the new recruit and wondered if he’d been lied to about his lack of military training. The respite did not last long.

Once again Hurley found himself on the receiving end of a combination of well-placed punches. He had to get this kid down on the mat, or he really was going to get his ass kicked. He backed up quickly as if retreating for his life. The kid followed him, and when he launched his next attack Hurley dropped down and slid in. He grabbed the lead leg and stuck his shoulder into the kid’s groin, while pulling and lifting at the same time. The kid tried to drop his hips but Hurley had too good a hold. Hurley was about to topple him when a double-fisted hammer strike landed between his shoulder blades. The blow was so solid Hurley nearly let go, but something told him if he did, he would lose, so he hung on for dear life and finally toppled the kid.

Hurley was on top of him. He found a wrist and jammed his thumb into the pressure point while maneuvering the rest of his body into position for an arm bar. He rolled off and delivered a scissor kick to the throat of his opponent that under the rules was not exactly fair, but neither was their business. The kick barely missed, but Hurley had his opponent’s wrist in both hands now and was ready to lean back and cantilever the kid’s damn arm until he hyperextended the elbow. Before he could lock in the move, though, the kid did something that Hurley did not think possible.

Rapp had somehow reversed into the hold and was now on top of Hurley, who still had a good grip on his wrist. Hurley’s head, however, was now firmly locked between Rapp’s knees. Rapp hooked his ankles together and began to close his knees like a vise crushing a coconut.

Hurley jabbed his thumb as deeply into the wrist of his opponent as he could, but it didn’t get him to back off a bit. He could feel the early stages of a blackout coming on and scrambled for a way out. He released his left hand from the wrist hold and grabbed a handful of the kid’s thick black hair. Instead of letting go, though, the kid squeezed his knees even harder. White lights were dancing at the periphery of his vision. Hurley couldn’t believe he just had his ass handed to him by some college puke.

Still, he did not stop looking for a way out, and with the darkness closing in, he found his answer sitting only a few inches in front of his face. He vaguely remembered a brief discussion about rules before they had started but that wasn’t important right now. Making sure he didn’t lose was what was important. In a last-ditch effort to avoid calamity, Hurley released his opponent’s wrist and lashed out with his now free hand. He found the kid’s gonads and with every last ounce of strength he clamped down and began to squeeze.

CHAPTER 5

KENNEDY returned to the lake house just after six in the evening. She was tired, hungry, and not in the mood for another confrontation with Hurley, but there were certain developments that needed to be discussed. One of the unforeseen and increasingly difficult aspects of her job was the inability to communicate freely with her colleagues. Foreign intelligence agencies that operated in Washington were always a threat, but no longer her biggest concern. Now she had to worry about her own government and a new generation of journalists who wanted to break the next Watergate, Pentagon Papers, or Iran Contra scandal. Combined, they had ended hundreds of careers and done untold damage to national security. It was the new sport in Washington to pound on the very agencies tasked with keeping America safe. Surprisingly, Kennedy was fairly ambivalent about it. As her mentor Thomas Stansfield had told her many times, “Great spies don’t complain about the rules, they find ways around them.”

She parked the car in front of the house and climbed the porch steps, dreading the thought of going another round with Hurley. Kennedy opened the screen door and entered. The rooms to her left and right were empty, so she went down the center hall to the kitchen. Her feet stopped where the hardwood floor transitioned to linoleum. Sitting at the kitchen table was a bruised and battered Stan Hurley. He had a drink filled with ice and Maker’s Mark pressed against a fat lip and a bag of ice held against his swollen right eye. Leaning against the counter directly across from him was Troy Tschida, a thirty-two-year-old former Green Beret and Hurley’s right-hand man. Tschida tried but failed to suppress his amusement over his boss’s battered physical appearance.

“You think this is funny?” Hurley snarled.

“Absolutely not,” Tschida said with dramatic, false sincerity.

“You prick. Wait till I stick your ass in the ring with him. You won’t be laughing after he lands a couple punches.”

“What happened?” Kennedy asked, genuinely not sure what they were talking about.

Hurley hadn’t seen her enter, because the bag of ice was covering his right eye, and he didn’t hear her because his ears were still ringing. He turned his head and removed the bag of ice to reveal an eye that was so swollen it was almost entirely closed. The skin above the eye was a shiny bulbous red.

“What happened,” Hurley said in a voice rising with anger, “was that fucking Trojan hoarse you dumped in front of my house this afternoon.”

It clicked and Kennedy thought of Rapp. “You’re saying my recruit did this to you?”

“Don’t fucking play games with me. I am in no mood.” Hurley slammed his glass down on the table and grabbed the bottle of bourbon. He filled it to the brim.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kennedy said sincerely.

Hurley took a big gulp and said, “My ass. He’s your recruit. You give me some cut-and-paste fuckin’ jacket on the guy that reads like a ransom note. I know nothing about him. He’s here less than a minute and he up and suggests we find out if he has the right stuff.” Hurley stopped to take another drink and then in a falsetto voice designed to mimic Rapp said, “Let’s speed things up, and find out if I have what it takes to do this.”

“My recruit did that to you?” asked Kennedy, still not entirely sure what the man was talking about.

Hurley slammed his glass down again. This time brown liquid sloshed over the lip of the glass. “Yes, God dammit! And don’t stand there and act like this is a surprise to you.” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You planned it. You set me up.”