The stories Shepherd had seen on the news reminded him of an attack on the marine base he and his friends were stationed at in Afghanistan. It was near some shithole village in the Korengal Valley, and he was just coming out of the mess hall with Ron Jackson and Mike Rosenberg. They didn’t have their M-4 rifles, but Shepherd never went anywhere without a pistol. Things had been quiet around the base for more than a month, and the air force had been pounding the insurgents all across the valley. It was a much-needed respite from some of the combat they had seen earlier.
Just as they were coming out of the mess he heard gunfire and saw two Afghan men running forward, firing randomly with U.S. Marine rifles. Before he could do much more than reach for a pistol, Ron Jackson shoved Shepherd and Rosenberg to cover. It was a good move, and one that might have saved their lives. Normally in these situations he turned to Rosenberg, who could always give him a good understanding of the situation, but in this case they all had the same information. Someone believed these men were their allies and had given them too much access to the base.
Just as a man wearing a backpack came running up shouting something in Pashto, a marine sprang from the side of the supply tent and yanked the pack right off his back. It was unbelievable. Shepherd just stared in amazement, and the movement had stunned the three intruders as well. A moment later gunfire from marines knocked down all three attackers.
It took a few seconds longer for Shepherd to realize the marine who had just saved the base from a major terror attack was his friend Derek Walsh.
Now Shepherd took another swig of coffee at his desk. The few hours of sleep he’d grabbed in the morning were not enough to recharge his batteries. Because he had taken the initiative and put his marines out front the night before, he’d been called in for a security meeting, and now, after doing such a good job, his marines were expected to be at the front gate and supported by the army personnel.
So far it had been quiet, but he received reports of buses headed their way, and there were already about fifty people chanting catchy slogans like “America, land of the greedy” or “Leave our land.” His orders were the same: Treat everyone with respect and use the utmost restraint possible to avoid any incident. That meant taking rocks and bottles against their shields and helmets, even allowing the protesters to shove them if they got as far as the gate. They had requested more German police officers, but this was not the only site of large-scale protests. The German financial markets had started to tumble like the ones in London and New York. People were scared and taking to the streets.
To complicate matters, there had been several sporadic terror attacks at the site of the protests. A suicide bomber had killed thirteen in Berlin and wounded dozens more. The attack in the country’s largest city made him think about his friend Ronald Jackson, who had died defending the embassy there.
Throughout the stressful night and day, and into the night again, he’d kept thinking about his friends spread out across the globe. Now it was midafternoon in the U.S., and Mike Rosenberg was probably comfortable in his office in Langley. Derek Walsh was probably busy as hell with the markets going wild. Shepherd had talked with his father briefly before coming out to the gate, and the retired navy man assured him that everyone was safe and told Shepherd to worry about himself. That’s what he intended to do, but first he called a couple of women he knew in Germany to make sure they were well. After short conversations, he couldn’t resist making another call while he had a few minutes. He dialed the number, and his latest conquest, Fannie Legat, picked up after two rings.
It only took a moment for her to recognize who it was, and then she hesitated. Shepherd asked her, “Where are you?”
There was another hesitation, and he heard voices in the background. It sounded like she was in a restaurant. “I’m still traveling. I probably won’t be back in Stuttgart for another few days. How are you? Are you safe?”
He could hear the chanting starting again outside the base. He didn’t want to worry her. “I’m as safe as can be inside the base. I just was hoping you were headed home.”
She purred with that pleasant accent and said, “Soon. I’ll call you tomorrow when I have a little more time, and we can chat.”
He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. Something told him she was out with another man. It certainly was her prerogative, but somehow it made him feel a little like a patsy. As he said good-bye, he heard a crash at the front of the base and sprang to his feet, scooping up a web belt with a Beretta in a holster. He ran as hard as he could toward the closest Humvee.
Walsh couldn’t help but fix his eyes upon the door to the building that Tonya Stratford and her partner, Frank Martin, had walked through about ten minutes earlier. Not much had changed in the tone of either crowd. On the far side of the courtyard, the protesters were taunting police and throwing the occasional bottle. One of them had a strong enough arm to put a crack in the glass at the front of the building with a brick. Walsh was impressed with the power of the throw.
On his side of the courtyard, he noticed a number of reporters among the spectators. A uniformed NYPD police officer with a K-9 made a pass through the middle of the crowd, not even having to ask people to move out of the way. The sight of the muscular German shepherd had the desired effect and made people step back from instinct.
Walsh realized the cop had a purpose and the dog was stopping occasionally to sniff bags, looking for explosives. Although there weren’t any obvious protesters, the cops didn’t want to take a chance that someone would infiltrate this quiet crowd and detonate a bomb. He’d seen on the news that there had been several attacks like that around the world.
He was relieved to see that the cop paid no attention to him whatsoever. He wasn’t carrying a bag and had no heavy coat to conceal anything. If only the cop realized he was carrying a pistol and more than five hundred dollars in cash with no identification, Walsh had no doubt he’d be held for questioning until someone from the FBI figured out who he was.
He looked around the crowd and noticed several younger men in light jackets or windbreakers at the edges of the group. They were hiding the fact that they were looking into the crowd as if they were searching for someone. They were clean-cut, almost military-style, and that’s what made them stand out; they weren’t dressed in dark suits or shaggy-haired like so many New Yorkers. That made Walsh realize these guys were law enforcement of some kind.
Just then he noticed some movement at the front of the building and saw Tonya Stratford step out of the door with a uniformed police officer and his boss, Ted Marshall. They immediately started walking toward his side of the courtyard, and he understood instantly that she had caught a glimpse of him as she rushed through the crowd earlier. She’d been smart not to spook him and make him run. Now she was doing what they used to call driving the fox to the hounds. She wanted him to see her and try to cut through the crowd right into the hands of the men who were now ready to catch him.
This was not the time to panic. Although it hurt to see the man he needed to talk to being so close, Walsh needed to figure a way out of here. And fast.
As Fannie Legat ended the phone call with Major Shepherd, Amir snapped at her, “Who was that?”
Then she realized both men had heard her flirting over the phone. She gave them a smug smile just to get a reaction. The reaction she got from Amir was exactly what she’d expected. He was stuck somewhere in the eighteenth century, and although he outwardly appeared to detest her, she suspected he had a crush on her.