A few trucks dotted the unpaved lot, framed in dirty piles of snow. Condensation painted the inside of the plate-glass windows of the low-slung metal structure and ran down the streaked glass in uneven trails. Inside, the hot air hung heavy with the scent of cooking grease, fried meat, and eggs. Loren pulled off her jacket and slung it over her shoulder as she strode down the narrow aisle between the red-vinyl-topped stools on one side of the diner and the Formica tabletops in the booths lining the opposite wall. None of the booths were occupied, and she picked one well away from the men at the counter hunched over cups of coffee and white crockery plates heaped with bacon, eggs, and potatoes. A minute after they slid onto the stiff seats, a brunette in tight black jeans, a frilly white nylon blouse cut low and tight across her generous breasts, and a short black apron approached. She had a pad in one hand and a pen in the other. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast,” Loren said.

“Make that two,” Sky said.

The waitress scribbled and left without comment.

Loren eased back in the seat and stretched her left arm out along the top. “So, you were about to tell me what you’re doing here.”

Sky had the uneasy feeling she was being handled, and she didn’t like it. McElroy was a smart, seasoned operative, and she’d been under a long time. Sometimes an operative lost sight of their objective and became so integrated into the culture of the world they had infiltrated they had a hard time getting out. It was a matter of pride for her that she’d never lost an agent, physically or psychologically. This one wasn’t going to be the first, but she wasn’t entirely sure how far she could trust her. “I’ve already told you who I am.”

“So you said. If you’re here under one false identity, why not two?”

Sky smiled. “Not a bad idea. A double-double.”

Loren nodded.

“But there is the little fact that I’ve got your number.” Sky smiled.

The heat in Loren’s belly tightened. It was just a line, and not even true. No one had her number. No one knew her. Being known could get her killed. “Both of us being here is dangerous.”

“Only if we make a mistake. I don’t know about you, but I don’t make mistakes.”

“What do you think you can accomplish?”

“Look—” Sky waited while the waitress slid their coffee cups in front of them. Once alone, she leaned forward. “If you go deeper, then you need someone closer in case you need extraction.”

“I’ve never needed to be retrieved. I won’t now.”

“We wouldn’t send an unarmed soldier into the mountains without backup. This isn’t any different.”

“And you think you’d be enough to get me out?”

“Me and everyone at my disposal.”

Loren blew out a breath. “Things are heating up here. We can’t afford to raise suspicions.”

“Then we won’t. My cover is good. And if you get friendly-like, we’ll have all the more reason to be seen together.”

“Friendly,” Loren said. The heat spiked up into her chest.

“The club members know you’re interested in women.” Sky smiled. “So go ahead and be interested.”

“There might be a problem there. Ramsey is interested too.”

Sky’s eyes hardened. “Not happening.”

“Maybe not, but there’s no way I’m getting in his road.”

“I’ll handle him. You just do your part.”

“And you’ll be playing a part with me too?” Loren didn’t know why she’d asked. She knew the answer.

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Loren said. “It’s all a game.”

“Then we understand each other perfectly.”

Chapter Five


Augustus Graves drove his Humvee through the barbed wire–topped gate into the FALA compound, eight hundred acres of undeveloped forest, invisible from the air and unapproachable by ground except for a single unmarked, double-track trail carved out of the dense mountainside. The sentries, a man and woman in fatigues carrying assault rifles and sidearms, saluted as he passed. Some of his forces lived full-time on the compound. Others lived off-base, maintaining important outside contacts who could be called upon for munitions and other supplies. And then there were those special ones spread farther afield—the ones who had been groomed since birth for the most important missions of all.

Each time he drove through the gates and saw the training courses, the barracks, and the armory dotting the wooded encampment, his chest swelled with pride and satisfaction. His loins tightened and his heart beat harder. After the massacres at Waco and Ruby Ridge, he’d purchased the tract of land in the unpopulated Bitterroot Range via a series of shell companies with funds contributed by ardent Second Amendment rights supporters across the country as well as some highly positioned politicians who needed him to push the agendas they couldn’t embrace publicly. He’d known sooner than some of his fellow militiamen that a defensible, secure haven to train and plan was essential. And he’d been planning for thirty years, ever since he’d jumped on the last helo out of Saigon as the U.S. forces turned tail and ran in disgrace from the Communists. The U.S. government, and the castrated military that bowed down before it, had failed the nation and wasted the lives of his brothers-in-arms. He’d arrived home with a clear and certain vision of his mission, and at last, victory was at hand.

He’d never wanted public approval, wasn’t interested in the adulation of faceless masses like the politicians who supported him. He wanted to see the conviction burning in the eyes of the men—and now the women—who believed as he did in a free and powerful America, and who were willing to place their honor and their lives on the line to restore the nation to its rightful glory.

A hundred troops occupied the compound at any one time, but he had five times that many at his immediate command throughout Idaho and neighboring states. He didn’t contemplate outright war. His was a guerrilla action, carefully planned strikes designed to maximize destruction and destabilize institutions believed to be unassailable. Violent actions sent a message the public could not ignore: the government was corrupt and had been undermined by those who’d lost sight of the basic principles of the Constitution and Bill of Rights. The evidence was plain—every year saw a further erosion of a man’s basic right to control his own destiny, but the complacent masses refused to acknowledge the dangers. His goal was to change that, to force the truth on those who refused to see. Blood was hard to ignore.

He parked next to the one-story wood-framed headquarters building and jumped out. He could outrun and out-bench-press most of the men half his age. Striding quickly across the snow-packed ground, he dashed up the steps to the timber-floored porch and inside. A beefy corporal with buzzed blond hair and windburned cheeks sat behind a simple gray metal desk, a computer by one hand and a phone by the other. His khaki shirt stretched tight across his linebacker shoulders. Williams—ex-high-school football star, a plumber’s helper before Graves had elevated him in rank and given him a full-time job. He was loyal, fervent, and happy to take orders. A perfect soldier.

“Morning, sir,” Williams said, saluting smartly.

“Anything to report, Corporal?” Grave saluted and unzipped his green nylon flak jacket.

“No, sir. Nothing at all on the news about the…incident.”

Grave’s stomach curdled when he thought about the failed mission in Washington. He’d relied too heavily on mercenaries—men he hadn’t trained, go-betweens who didn’t have the discipline and courage to risk their lives for a just cause. When the plot to release a deadly contagion that would cripple the nation’s leaders had been discovered and foiled, he’d lost not only the element of surprise, he’d lost one valuable asset and had a second severely compromised. Years of careful planning had been wiped out all because of the cowardice of a few key agents. Agents who would pay.

“Very well,” Graves said curtly, as if the report was of little consequence. It wouldn’t do to have the troops know he was upset by this…setback.

“Ah,” the corporal said hesitantly, his gaze cutting to the closed door to Graves’s office.

Graves slowed, narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

“Captain Graves arrived early this morning, sir.” Williams seemed to shrink in his seat. “The captain said not to disturb you, so I didn’t call—”

“Thank you, Corporal,” Graves said, striding to the door emblazoned with the word Commandant in black block letters. He pushed through into his office and shut the door soundly behind him.

Jane, in combat fatigues with a Glock holstered on her left hip, stood by the window, looking out over the compound. It must have been almost two years since they’d last met in person. She was thinner than he remembered, and her profile was harsher. Fine lines radiated around her eyes, as if she’d spent a lot of time outside in the sun. She’d cut her glossy dark hair short, and it curled along her neck in an incongruously delicate fashion.

His eldest daughter turned and saluted. “Hello, Dad.”


*


Cam and Blair left the White House through the northwest entrance. Two SUVs idled in front of the gate. As soon as they exited the building, Stark stepped forward to follow them. Blair said to Cam, “Let’s go to the gym.”

“Feeling a little pent up?”

Blair laughed harshly. “Feeling a little penned up already. I wish there was some way he could avoid this campaign trip.”

“You could always—”

“Please.”

Cam took Blair’s arm. Squeezed gently as she pulled her close. “It’s going to be a long campaign. Plenty of time—”