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  Still in shock, Lago stumbled to the building’s front entrance and swore when he saw the Mercedes smash headlong into one of his men, killing him. He brought up his pistol to fire, but it was too late—the car turned a bend and vanished from sight. With a burning anger building up inside him, he staggered over to his wounded man lying on the side of the road. By the time he arrived, the only two uninjured men left on their feet were already there, helping to staunch the bleeding.

  “Give me your radio,” snapped Lago in Greek at one of his men. Whoever had done this to his men was going to pay. He snatched the radio from his man and pressed the Talk button. “Listen up, there’s a red Mercedes coming your way, Milos is in it. Block the road. I want her and the men with her captured alive. No one kills them.”

  No one except me, Lago added silently. He was looking forward to personally destroying the men who had dared to interfere with his plan. After ordering the two fit men to carry their wounded comrade to the rendezvous point, he looked back over his shoulder at the lodge as the flames spread, engulfing more of the home. The police and fire department would be there soon. By the time they arrived, he wanted to be long gone, and Milos in his possession.

  “Easy does it, Nate. I don’t want to fly off the side of the mountain,” said Mitchell, as Jackson took another corner at top speed.

  Barely letting his foot off the gas, Nate let the car slow slightly. He glanced at the rearview mirror. “I think we’re good.”

  “Is it safe?” asked Elena, poking her head up from the backseat.

  “Looks like it,” replied Mitchell. “But until we reach the bottom of the mountain, I think it would be best if you kept your head down.”

  “Do you think Sam and Gordon are okay?” asked Jackson.

  “Let’s find out.” Mitchell dug out his cell phone. He had just started to dial, when Jackson turned around another sharp bend. Suddenly, directly in front of them, two black pickup trucks blocked the road. A pair of mercenary-types stood in front of the vehicles, submachine guns in their hands.

  “Hard left!” yelled Mitchell, just as the men opened fire, shattering the Mercedes’ windshield. Glass exploded over them, cutting Mitchell and Jackson’s faces and hands.

  Without slowing down, Jackson spun the wheel all the way over to the left. A second later, as bullets whipped by their heads, he turned the car off the road and down onto the steep, tree-covered side of the mountain. The Mercedes bounced up and down like a bucking bronco as it headed down the slope.

  “Watch out for the trees!” yelled Mitchell, as branches whipped the side of the Mercedes, forcing him to duck as Jackson drove through the woods.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” replied Jackson, fighting to keep control of their car. With a loud crack, the driver’s-side mirror snapped off the car when Jackson came too close to a tall fir tree.

  The sharp, bullwhip-crack sound of bullets flying overhead made Mitchell turn in his seat and look back. He grimaced, watching one of the pickup trucks coming down the hill after them.

  “Don’t tell me; we’ve got company,” called out Jackson.

  “Okay, I won’t tell you, but you had best speed up.”

  Jackson swore under his breath, jammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and steered the Mercedes between a couple of tall trees—this time, taking out the mirror on Mitchell’s side.

  “There!” hollered Mitchell, pointing off to one side. “Aim for that trail.”

  Jackson glanced over at the hiking trail. “Any path is better than no path,” he muttered.

  He waited until the last possible second before he applied the brakes and turned the wheel in his hands, lining the car up with the faint path. It was a good plan, but not perfect, as the car bounced off the side of a thick tree, leaving a long indent down the length of the vehicle.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Fairway” said Jackson, as he stomped his foot down on the accelerator and raced off down the slender path.

  Behind them, the driver of the truck saw the move and turned to follow. Designed for off-road driving, the truck was better able to negotiate the sudden turn. The driver held the steering wheel tight in his gloved hands and took up the chase.

  “Must go faster,” said Mitchell, never taking his eyes off the truck behind them.

  “I’m doing the best that I can,” replied Jackson. “Do you want to drive?”

  “No. Just hand me your pistol.”

  Jackson quickly pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and tossed it over to Mitchell. With weapons in both hands, Mitchell looked at Elena. “Keep down!”

  He rested both automatics on the back of the white-leather seat. Even though they were on a relatively flat piece of the trail, the Mercedes still bounced up and down like a bucking bronco, making aiming accurately a near-impossible thing to do.

  A burst of automatic gunfire from the truck hit the back of the Mercedes, taking out the brake lights and perforating the trunk with a dozen holes.

  With a silent prayer on his lips, Mitchell put his trust in the volume of fire over accuracy. He pulled back on both pistol’s triggers, and let loose a fusillade of bullets aimed at the driver’s side of the pursuing truck. Only one in three bullets hit their target, but that was enough. The windshield shattered, momentarily blinding the driver, then a bullet struck him on the side of the head, knocking him out cold. Before the passenger could reach the wheel to take control, the truck slipped off the trail and rolled over onto its side. Sliding down the hill, the pickup came to a sudden and jarring halt when it slammed into a thick fir tree, crushing the roof of the vehicle.

  “That was too close,” said Mitchell, as he slid back into his seat and reloaded both pistols with fresh magazines.

  “Ma’am, just who the hell did you piss off?” Jackson asked Mrs. Milos.

  “Back home, I’m either viewed as a saint or the devil depending on your political persuasion,” replied Elena. A second later, she sat up in her seat. “Although the police ruled out foul play, I have always believed that someone was responsible for my husband’s death.”

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” said Mitchell.

  “Thank you, Mister Mitchell. Back home, my country has yet to recover from the failed economic policies of the past few decades. Fringe parties, from the Communists on the left to the neo-Nazis on the right, have taken advantage of the people’s frustrations. Both have come out advocating violence as a means to deal with Greece’s political problems, both domestically and internationally. My views on non-violence don’t sit well with them. However, until today, there had only been threats, not outright attacks.”

  “We were lucky today,” Mitchell said.

  “Yes. However, I fear their failure will only embolden them. That is why I am heading to Washington. If a diplomatic solution can be found to ease the tensions between Greece and Turkey, then these radicals will have no steam left in their sails to continue advocating violence.”

  “I wish you luck with that,” said Jackson.

  Up ahead, the road appeared. After checking that it was safe to proceed, Jackson turned the banged-up Mercedes onto the road and gunned the engine. As far as they were all concerned, the sooner they were at the bottom of the hill, the better.

  Less than a minute later, the welcoming sound of police sirens filled the air. They pulled over. Mitchell and Jackson put away their pistols and waited for the police to arrive.

  After seeing Mrs. Milos safely onto a plane bound for Washington D.C. accompanied by four Federal Agents, Mitchell and his people returned to the local police station. They spent the next few hours filling out statements and offering what information they could about the attack. The women at the lodge were taken to a nearby hotel and placed under guard until flight arrangements could be made for them to return home safely. A couple of hours later, they all walked into the bar at their hotel and ordered a round of drinks.

  “It was incredible,” Sam said, recounting their adventure in the caves. “I’ve never seen so many bats i
n one place in my life. Scared the bejeezus out of me.”

  “Well, Jackson’s improvised off-road driving scared the bejeezus out of me, so I know how you felt, Sam,” Ryan said with a wink as he took a long sip of his beer.

  Nate looked injured. “Hey, I got us out alive, didn’t I?”

  Before long, fatigue and one too many drinks began to cloud Mitchell’s mind. Cognizant of the fact that he owed his boss, General O’Reilly, a quick call, followed by one to his girlfriend, Jennifer March, he excused himself and headed upstairs to his room. One nagging thought kept returning to the forefront: Who were the people who had attacked the lodge? And why did he have the sinking feeling his team wasn’t done with them?

  4

  Polaris Headquarters

  Albany, New York

  At the back of the main headquarters building, under a bright and cloudless sky, a festive celebration was in full swing. Music played over the loudspeakers, and Nate Jackson was keeping a watchful eye over several BBQs, loaded with sizzling steaks and chicken. Mitchell and Jen walked through the crowd, carrying small coolers, handing out beer and pop to the people enjoying a rare, quiet day at Polaris.

  The creation of Major-General Jack O’Reilly, U.S. Army (retired), Polaris Operations (Global) was a private security organization that focused on solving other people’s problems. Polaris employees were specialists in training various military, police, and civilian organizations from all around the globe. They helped others to learn new skills in order to survive in an increasingly volatile world, where the threat was asymmetrical and no longer confined to just nation states.

  General Jack O’Reilly watched his people having a good time, noting that it had been far too long since they had taken a day off from training. He had ditched his usual suit for a pair of khaki slacks and a dark-blue polo shirt. Although almost sixty, O’Reilly kept himself in superb shape and enjoyed running ten kilometers a day before he came to work. His head was smooth-shaven, and the only concession he gave to getting older was the reading glasses that hung from his neck.

  Seeing that everyone was in close enough proximity, O’Reilly decided that it was time. He walked over to the PA system. “Could I please have everyone’s attention? Why don’t you all take a seat?” He waited for the crowd to settle, and silence to fall. “Since I’m not one to give long-winded speeches, I’ll get straight to the point. I’d like to ask Mike Donaldson to come here and say hi to everyone as my new deputy.”

  With a look that encompassed both pride and embarrassment on his face, Donaldson rose from his seat at his picnic table and walked over beside O’Reilly. Donaldson, a former intelligence lieutenant colonel with the U.S. Air Force, stood out in the crowd. He was quite tall, with a full head of white hair. Donaldson seemed to be perpetually stuck in a bit of a time warp, as he preferred wearing clothes that would be more in tune with the fashions of the 1970s than today. Up until moments ago, he had been the head of the intelligence section at Polaris.

  After shaking Donaldson’s hand, O’Reilly tapped the microphone to once again get everyone’s attention. He looked out at the people he had come to respect and admire. Some, like Mitchell, had become part of his life. He and his wife had never had any children, and he looked at Mitchell as the son they never had.

  O’Reilly smiled and lifted up his half-empty beer can. “Folks, before we dig into that delicious-smelling food, I have one other announcement to make. As Mike has been promoted out of his old job and into the world of mind-numbing administration, we have another vacancy that I need to fill. Therefore, it gives me great pleasure to announce that starting tomorrow, Miss Fahimah Nazaria will be the new head of the intelligence section. Come up here and join us, Fahimah.”

  Fahimah appeared as proud and embarrassed as Donaldson had been at the unexpected promotion. Fahimah, a beautiful Iraqi-American with multiple degrees in Middle-Eastern studies, was a favorite of Mitchell’s team, so she got a loud standing ovation from the group of them. Dressed in a long, dark-blue outfit with matching headscarf, Fahimah walked over and joined O’Reilly.

  Mitchell turned to Jen, who also worked in the intelligence section. “Does this mean that you’re in line for a raise as well?”

  She shook her head. “General O’Reilly spoke to me in the hallway about an hour ago and told me what was about to happen. I’m far too junior an analyst to replace someone as experienced as Fahimah; besides, I’m happy doing what I do. I think he already has a person in mind, though.”

  “Who?” asked Mitchell.

  Jen shrugged her shoulders. “He wouldn’t say.”

  They seated themselves again at their table, and were quickly joined by Sam and Cardinal. They listened to O’Reilly speak for a few minutes, thanking everyone for all of their hard work over the past year.

  Ryan Mitchell glanced over at his girlfriend and smiled. She was without doubt the best thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life. Not only gorgeous, with a trim, athletic body, a well-proportioned face with deep, mahogany-colored eyes, warm brown skin, and short, caramel-colored hair, but she was also highly intelligent and well-educated.

  “I can see you staring,” said Jen. “Pay attention to the general, not me.”

  “I can’t help myself. The general isn’t half as good looking as you are.”

  “That may be so, but he pays the bills.”

  General O’Reilly wrapped up his speech, and people began to wander over to the BBQs, looking to get some lunch. Ryan noticed O’Reilly heading in their direction, stopping to shake hands with several of his employees along the way.

  “Sir, you couldn’t have picked a better pair for promotion,” said Mitchell.

  “Yeah, it wasn’t too hard,” replied O’Reilly. “I wasn’t going to go outside of the organization when I had the talent here right under my nose.”

  Mitchell decided to dig for info. “Jen says that you have someone in mind to replace Fahimah.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “Yes, I do, and until I finish interviewing her, her name is going to remain my secret.”

  “Wow, an all-female intelligence section. I may have to switch jobs,” joked Cardinal.

  “Not likely,” said Sam with an evil glare.

  O’Reilly chuckled, taking a sip of beer and refraining from further comment.

  Mitchell decided to change topics. “Sir, did you ever hear back from the FBI about the attack on the Fairway Lodge? I’m curious to know if they ever identified any of the attackers.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was on the phone with an old friend of mine just before coming down here. After double-checking their dental records, it would appear that the deceased were already dead.”

  Jen shook her head. “Sorry, sir, I’m not following you.”

  “All of the men were listed as having been killed in the line of duty.”

  “Ghosts,” observed Sam.

  “Precisely,” said O’Reilly. “They were all former soldiers or policemen who’d vanished from their old lives and been given new identities so they could come and go as they pleased without ever arousing suspicion. What is troubling is that Interpol says that they were a real mix of people. Most were Greek, while others were Romanian or Dutch. The FBI believes they were mercenaries hired to kill Mrs. Milos.”

  “I think I’m going to have to pay more attention to Mrs. Milos from now on,” said Jen.

  “I’m glad you mentioned that,” said O’Reilly. “I’d like a full staff briefing on her and her political views. It may help identify the attackers. Also, I’d like you to look at the situation brewing in the Aegean Sea as soon as you can put an overview together.”

  Mitchell grinned. “Way to volunteer for extra work, Jen.”

  She shook her head and playfully hit Mitchell on the arm. “Well, if I’m working, that means less time for you.”

  Mitchell pretended to pout.

  General O’Reilly’s phone buzzed. “Excuse me a second, folks. Diane wants me to give her a call. She says it’s urgent,”
announced O’Reilly as he stood. With a troubled look on his face, O’Reilly headed back into the office building.

  Ryan watched him go with concern. But rather than speculate on his boss’ personal life, he turned his attention to the BBQ. “Come on, team—let’s grab some food. I’m starving,” he said.

  O’Reilly walked to the reception area of his office. Tammy Spencer, his executive assistant, was sitting at her desk busily typing. As always, she was immaculately dressed, wearing a blue suit with a white, open-necked blouse.

  O’Reilly stopped at her desk and said, “Tammy, you should head outside and grab some lunch before it’s all gone.”

  “Sir, Diane gave me a quick call before she called you. I’ll wait until you’re done with your call before I get something to eat. I told Nate to cook me up a steak medium rare, just the way I like it. And it had better be there when I go down, or there’ll be hell to pay,” she replied, with a gentle smile.

  O’Reilly chuckled quietly as he stepped into his office that overlooked the front of the building. He took a seat behind his desk, picked up his phone and called his wife.After a couple of minutes, he walked back out to speak with Tammy.

  She looked up from her work, her eyes filled with compassion. “I’m so sorry, sir. Please accept my condolences. I’ve already booked you and Diane on a flight to Seattle later tonight. I’ll print out the itinerary and reserve you a rental car at the airport right away.”

  O’Reilly nodded his head, feeling as if he were moving about in a daze. “Tammy, could you please ask Mike and Ryan to come to my office?”

  A couple of minutes later, Mitchell and Donaldson strolled into O’Reilly’s office. Mitchell was about to make one of his usual flirtatious comments, but when he saw the serious look in her eyes, he stopped himself. He leaned down and whispered, “What’s going on?”