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As Hollingshead led Chapel up through various layers and corridors of the Pentagon, every soldier they passed stood to attention and saluted. Clearly they knew the man — and respected him. Chapel found himself grinning, despite the screwed-up situation he’d landed in. This was a whole other world from the cubicle farm at Fort Belvoir. This was the game — the Great Game, they used to call it.

As they made their way through the lobby toward the helipad deck, a squad of soldiers at the security checkpoint stopped in the middle of searching visitors and lined up by the door like they were competing for who got to hold it open. They watched Hollingshead like he was about to perform some kind of magic trick. Hollingshead might look like a stuffy old professor from Yale or Harvard, but these men knew better.

“I have a question, sir,” Chapel said.

“You’re free to ask, of course.” Hollingshead’s mouth curled in a funny kind of smile. “I’ll tell you anything I can.”

“I just wanted to know — how should I be addressing you? If I’m working for you now, I’d like to know whether I should call you Colonel… or General.”

“Are those my only options? They used to call me Commodore. Then it was Rear Admiral.”

“Sir,” Chapel said, his spine stiffening. “Beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you were in the navy.”

“Try not to hold it against me,” Hollingshead said. He waved the guards away and pushed the doors open himself, letting a gust of fresh air come blasting into the security lobby.

A helicopter — a Bell 407, painted in civilian colors and with no DoD markings at all — was waiting on the Pentagon’s helipad. Its rotor was already spun up by the time Chapel and Hollingshead arrived.

The noise of the chopper was enough to make it difficult for Chapel to hear what Hollingshead was saying. He’d been rambling on about what kind of support Chapel would have in his mission — an unlimited budget, the ability to requisition police and National Guard units as required — but Chapel hadn’t been listening with more than half an ear. He was too busy trying to remember what he knew about New York City, a place he’d only been a handful of times in his life.

“Captain,” Hollingshead said, nearly shouting over the roar of the helicopter’s engine.

“Hmm?”

“Captain! I’m about to commit an act of treason! I’d appreciate it if I could have some of your attention.”

That made Chapel focus, and quickly. “Admiral,” he said.

“You have a number of questions, I’m sure, which haven’t been answered yet. I can’t tell you everything, but I can give you a little more than you’ve heard so far.”

Chapel could barely hear Hollingshead’s voice over the roar of the rotor blades, but he leaned close to catch every word. He understood how serious this was.

“What happened this morning, at the camp, was a disaster. It was supposed to be impossible. It was also, in a way, the luckiest break we’re likely to get.”

“Admiral?”

“The CIA — Banks, specifically — was supposed to be in charge of any escapes from that camp. He had someone in our ranks there — a mole — who was supposed to call him if such a thing happened. For reasons no one knows, the mole failed to make that telephone call. Because it is a top secret DoD facility, it was put on my desk instead. My office was given oversight on this. I mobilized the capture teams immediately. You’ve guessed by now what happened to them. I was quite prepared to send more men, as many as it took — this is that big a threat. But by that time, Banks had finally heard what was going on. He went straight to the president and demanded he be given this operation.

“Because time was of the essence and I was already working on this, the commander in chief decided I should remain in charge. But Banks was given veto power over every move I made. He has not been shy about using that power. It was his decision to send a single man rather than multiple teams. He is far more concerned about maintaining secrecy in this matter than in actually capturing the fugitives.”

“But if they’re that dangerous—”

“He feels that allowing the public to know what’s going on would be an even greater threat to national security,” Hollingshead said. He shook his head sadly. “He’s a smart man, but I can’t say I approve of his priorities. He insisted that it had to be one man for this job. He wanted to send that goon of his, but I insisted I choose the man. Any number of twenty-five-year-old Navy SEALs came to mind, but no. I wanted someone who could be discreet, somebody with some experience — no cowboys. This isn’t a job for a hit man; this is far more surgical. I picked you.”

“I appreciate your faith in me, sir,” Chapel said. Even though he couldn’t claim to understand it.

“You’re going to curse my name before this over, I don’t doubt it. But I need you in this role. You are the last chance to keep this thing in Military Intelligence hands. If you fail, I fail as well. Banks will gain total control over this operation. He’ll send his goon in and I think you can guess what would happen then. The cretin will kill every shaggy-haired man in a five-hundred-mile radius. The collateral damage will be astonishing, and terrible. You and I both swore an oath to protect the American people. It’s you who’s going to have to uphold that oath, because there can be no one else, now.”

“I’ll — I won’t let you down,” Chapel promised.

“I know what we’ve handed you, Captain. I know how I would feel about being given a mission like this and then being told I couldn’t know any of the details. We’re playing a rotten joke on you, frankly, and I’m sorry. It was Banks who insisted we send you out into this with an incomplete briefing, as well.”

“I understand the need for secrecy, sir,” Chapel said.

“I daresay you do. What neither you nor I understand — at least not completely, not yet — is just how much is going on behind the scenes. Banks is playing a very deep strategy here. He’s keeping me from telling you everything I know. But he can’t keep you from finding things out on your own.”

“Sir?”

“Keep your eyes open, out there. Put the clues together. If you’re going to actually pull this off, that’s the only way. Figure out what we’re not telling you — and why we can’t tell you. Banks won’t like you peeling back the lid of his box of secrets, but he can’t stop you, not if you’re smart about it.”

Chapel nodded in understanding.

“Whatever you do,” Hollingshead said, “keep yourself alive. It’s imperative to me that you don’t get killed out there.”

“I — sir, that’s—”

“Because, Captain, I don’t have time to find a replacement. Now get going! I’ve got a little surprise for you en route. You’ll get to meet your new partner.”

He shook Chapel’s hand and headed back into the Pentagon.

Leaving Chapel all alone — with a job to do.

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+6:29

In Brooklyn an old woman was just being roused from sleep. The bedside light came on with a click, and Dr. Helen Bryant’s eyes flickered open. She had been in the middle of her midday nap and felt somewhat annoyed at being awoken. Then she looked up and saw a face looming over hers and fear caught flame inside her chest.

“Please,” she said, clutching the sheets in her fists. “Don’t hurt me. I don’t keep any drugs here. They’re at my clinic.”

The face hovering over her was broad and cruel. Male, perhaps twenty-five years old. His hair and beard were hacked short, as if he’d cut them himself, and his eyes were hidden by large sunglasses. If she’d been a little more awake, she might have known what that meant.

“Relax,” he told her, his voice a low growl that held a purr of violence ticking over like an idling engine. She tried to sit up, but a thick hand pressed down between her breasts and pushed her back. She couldn’t fight that hand — it was like struggling against an industrial press. She could feel the bones of her rib cage flex as he pushed down harder. “I said relax. My name is Brody. You know what I am.”