In a soft tone she said, “Nothing else. But everything to him.”

I looked at her and said, “Yes. I caused a human being to cease to exist. I took his life, because he wanted me to. He made me kill him, and I don’t like it. But liking’s got nothing to do with the fact that he deserved to die.”

She said, “Maybe we need a break from this. I don’t want to become Shoshana. I don’t want to crave a killing.”

I sat up and turned on the lamp next to our bed. “Don’t ever say that. Ever. Shoshana doesn’t crave killing, any more than I do. She’s just good at her job. Same as me. Same as you. Wishing evil won’t come doesn’t make it so. We did good today. Omar would have killed a hundred people. You stopped that. Saving Christine allowed us to alert the Vatican. It’s what made the plan fail. You did that. Together, we prevented the biggest propaganda coup the Islamic State would ever achieve, which in turn will prevent more radicalization. Prevent more death.”

I saw her eyes water at the statement. She said, “Shoshana is going to die. Because of me. I should have fired the bullet. I should have stayed to help her.”

I said, “No, she’s not. She won’t. She has the best medical care in Italy. If you’d have fired, the vest would have gone off in the open air instead of with Omar lying on top of it.”

Unlike when Christine was shot, the explosion at the Colosseum had triggered a massive response, with ambulances and first responders flooding the area. Shoshana had been immediately whisked away in an ambulance, and was now being treated as a hero, an innocent civilian who’d managed to stop an attack. Or at least mitigate its effects.

Jennifer had fled, hiding her weapon and running from the scene to protect our cover. She was a coward in her mind, and now she was being eaten alive by it.

Jennifer said, “If she dies, I’m done. Forever.”

I’d said, “She’s not going to die. She’s waiting on a date from me.”

Jennifer had laughed, but there was little pleasure in it.

Inside the hospital room, looking at Shoshana’s broken form, I wasn’t so sure I was right.

Staring at her, Aaron said, “I’ve got to find a different line of work.”

The remark reminded me of Jennifer. Of leaving the fighting to someone else. I said, “Do you think you could do that?”

He said, “No. I don’t know anything else. Not a lot of jobs for Israeli assassins in the world.”

An idea grew, building steam in my head, but it was absolutely insane. I worked for the United States government, conducting operations solely on behalf of my countrymen, and the Israeli’s motivations would always be questioned. But Aaron and Shoshana were some of the best I’d ever seen.

I said, “What’s your real relationship with Israel? Do you honestly not work for the Mossad?”

He caught my tone and paused before answering. He said, “It’s what I told you. I didn’t lie. I’m independent now. They hire me for a contract, I work, but when that one’s done, no more money. No more swapping secrets. Honesty, I don’t think I can do this as a business. Not enough work to eat, and I’m definitely not getting paid for the risk. Why do you ask?”

I said, “How would you like to work for an archeological company? On a retainer basis? Give you a little cushion in between jobs. But our retainer would supersede Israel’s interests.”

He chuckled and said, “I’d like that, but I need to talk to my partner first.”

He thought I was kidding, but I wasn’t. I said, “And when she says yes, you’ll give me a call?”

“What makes you think she will?”

“Because she’s sweet on me. No offense.”

He laughed for real, the first time he’d done so since Shoshana had been admitted. He started to retort, and Shoshana’s arm moved. We saw the movement, holding our breath. It twitched again, and her eyes opened.

We both leapt up, Aaron shouting, “Nurse, nurse!”

I leaned over her bed, staring into her eyes, disappointed to see them unfocused, with a pale reflection, like a wax figure looking back. She blinked, and I saw her conscious mind coalescing.

She blinked again, the recognition gathering, her brain starting to engage. I said, “I told you to only follow him. I can’t ever trust you.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. She glanced down the length of her broken body, seeing the tubes running out and the bandages. She said, “I didn’t get to wash my hands. But you still owe me a date.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Before getting to the kind folks who helped me write this novel, I’d like to acknowledge the most important person of all. That would be you, the reader. Without you, Pike Logan would have been banished to the trash bin of history long ago. This is my eighth novel—a feat I would have said was ridiculous a mere four years ago—and it is a direct result of you. Some writers will tell you that they craft their work solely for the art, regardless of the enjoyment of the reader, but that is not me. Having someone enjoy my work is the sole reason I write, and without you, I would go back to security work without a second glance, which would aggravate the hell out of my wife. Truthfully, I still don’t consider myself a writer, even with eight novels under my belt. Describing myself as such seems arrogant, and I always fumble my words when I’m asked what I do for a living. I still can’t believe it’s true, and I have a single person to thank for it. You.

The Insider Threat has been one of the hardest novels I’ve ever tackled, precisely because it deals with a threat that is very real and very current. Predicting the twists and turns in the Middle East is almost guaranteeing failure, and predicting the fight against ISIS is even worse. Hell, by the time this goes to press, ISIS may no longer even exist, but I don’t think that will happen. I decided to stick with it, focusing on what I knew about its aspirations and what I believed would be the worst threat—namely, jihadists with no background or profile coming home. At one point, near the end, I was at a complete loss as to what to do. I knew how the last page was going to read, but I had no idea how to get there. Every action seemed too easy, too coincidental, or too convoluted, and I’d painted myself into a corner with respect to the timeline of various events. Luckily for me, I know a James Island redneck named Beau. He invited me over to his house—my wife was more than glad to get rid of my complaining for a night—and after a case of beer and about eight hours around a fire pit, him bouncing ideas off me and me doing the same in return, I had my ending.

I do a lot of Internet/book research before I travel to an area, and invariably, that research is upended by on-the-ground information from a local. In Albania, it was a bartender at the Sheraton Hotel in Tirana. After about thirty minutes of talking to him, I threw out the guidebooks and started taking notes on Blloku and Tirana Park. Venice and Rome were a little easier, although my guide in the Vatican grew curious as to why I couldn’t care less about the Sistine Chapel and only wanted to know about the pope’s activities inside Saint Peter’s Basilica. I finished that bit of research, and then when it came time to write, I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember where the entrance was to the grotto below Saint Peter’s. All I had was a picture of the stairwell, which did no good. Internet research was horrible, with most responses saying, “It’s hard to find—but well worth the trip! And it’s FREE!” Which made me feel like an idiot, because I’d done the walk and now couldn’t find the stairwell. I was saved by another author. After begging anyone for help, author Meg Gardiner—who writes a pretty mean thriller, by the way—actually had a map from a 1960 Michelin guide. And she scanned it and sent it to me, saving the day. Physical accuracy is important, but technical aspects are even more so. A special thanks to Kurt, an agent on the president’s protective detail of the Secret Service, for pointing me in the right direction with respect to the pope’s security apparatus. While I would never want to compromise anything, I did want to get that right.