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“It does make sense, Larry! They're using guerilla-style methods. Removing those who are the key links in the international terrorist web! What else could unify all these attacks?”

Kanter threw up his hands. “John, that's the point — I don't see that they are unified. That's your task, to prove it to me, and, damn it, this isn't very persuasive!”

The rest of Intel 1 was very quiet. In addition to Hernandez, the group was fully assembled, torn from different tasks and assignments, interrupting their work of digging out international terrorists. All because Savas had called a special meeting with high priority. With their eyes on him and Kanter's dismissal, he felt like an idiot.

They had all listened intently to Savas as he had presented the information. A list of assassination-style killings, all of which were connected in one way or another to the international criminal underground that supported and enabled terrorist activity. Some were middlemen, some were spokesmen, and some were fundraisers. All were significant players, and all had met untimely deaths in similar ways. The MOs were very similar. It was so clear! Someone was moving systematically and ruthlessly, brutally crushing the pressure points to cripple the ability of terrorist groups to function. The silence he received was maddening.

He glanced around the room for support. Any hint of support. J. P. Rideout and Matt King had their eyes cast down. The dark-haired Rideout, trim and stylishly dressed, had been Kanter's steal from Wall Street and Bloomberg monitors. Rideout retained a residual superiority inherited from his French forbears, his style sharply counterbalanced by the analytical bookworm named Matt King. King, a former energy lawyer for big-oil firms, had turned do-gooder after witnessing the 9/11 attack on the Pentagon from his hotel window. Both Rideout and King clearly thought he was nuts.

Across from them at the round table frowned Frank Miller, the hulking ex-marine. Miller clearly wasn't onboard with him, but he held his gaze with a thoughtful expression as he parsed what he had heard from Savas.

Last of all he looked over to Rebecca Cohen. She sat on his right, her deep-brown eyes troubled and nearly lost in the thick mane of chestnut hair that swept across her face and down her shoulders. Her small stature seemed dwarfed by the solid wall of marine next to her. Cohen had moved up through FBI counterterrorism for a number of years and was snagged by Kanter because she was so bright. She had come to the states as a small child, her father immigrating after several family members were killed in a bus bombing in Tel Aviv. Her motivation was keen, and her analytical skills had made her his “right hand” at Intel 1.

“Mad John.” A voice from the back of the room.

An uncomfortable silence fell. Savas glanced toward the source of the voice. He smiled as he glimpsed a young elfin woman in her midtwenties, long, ironed-looking orange hair to her waist framing a needle-thin body as pale as undecorated china. She wore a plain dark-blue dress that looked like it came out of an Amish catalog, complemented by bright-orange sneakers with flashing lights built into the bottoms. Children's shoes. She stood apart from the group seated at the table, staring absentmindedly outside the window, seemingly caught in a trance of some kind.

“Greetings, Kemo Sabe.” The young woman spoke as if sensing his gaze, yet she never took her attention away from the glass or left her trancelike state. Angel Lightfoote. Brilliant and pulling out important connections in data no one else could see. Larry's latest find.

The awkward silence continued. “Don't everyone act so shocked,” said Savas at last. “I've heard the name. Mad John Savas. Nice ring to it.”

“Does seem you're out to earn it,” grumbled Kanter. “You might have gotten a call from POTUS for your recent heroics, John, but back here we need you to make sense.”

Miller interrupted. “A series of coordinated hits — what about organized crime?”

Savas felt his frustration boiling over. “No! Not mob! I saw my fair share of mob hits when I was on the force, Frank. They're brutal, but blunt. These hits were surgical. The methods the same: single shot, high-powered rifle, military grade, professional work—beyond mob. Assassination style.”

“John, you would be talking about an organization with enormous resources,” Cohen interjected. All eyes turned toward her. “These are not a series of isolated murders. If this is all part of some broad conspiracy, the killers have to have an international scope, finances, skilled personnel, an ability to conduct intelligence and mission planning that would rival the best government agencies of the world!”

“How do we know it isn't governmental?” asked J. P. Rideout.

“Not possible,” scoffed Matt King. “You're talking about a series of coordinated assassinations. No reputable nation would dare.”

“Maybe one not so reputable,” grumbled Miller, his broad frame tense as a result of the new direction of the conversation.

“Which of the disreputable nations do you think cares enough to undertake an effort to stop terrorism?” quipped King.

Rideout turned toward him. “What makes any nation reputable? What about us? Didn't we have a vice-presidential CIA hit squad trained for this very purpose?”

A long silence fell over the room. The weight of that statement in connection with the assassinations sank in deeply. Even Kanter sat down and looked sharply at the former Wall Streeter.

“Well, didn't we?” Rideout echoed.

Kanter looked troubled. “If you're talking about Cheney's death squads, that's all documented. So is the fact that they were never activated. That entire idea was only a hypothetical.”

J. P. Rideout laughed. “Sure! For eight years of the Bush presidency, these guys were being prepped — that much is on the record, too. Larry, that's a hell of a long training program. Eight years readying themselves to kill terrorist leaders and never once going on the job? Must have been a frustrated bunch of dudes.”

Kanter's face was stern. “You can speculate all you want, J. P., but at the FBI, in my division, we deal in facts. And let me tell you, even the speculation of such activity by the US government is a serious matter.”

“It would surely make a good framework for hanging John's linked assassinations, though, wouldn't it?” added King.

Cohen shook her head. “Come on, guys, this doesn't make sense. It would mean that the current administration had put into motion the clandestine murder of numerous US and foreign targets.”

“Bin Laden. That's all I have to say,” broke in Rideout.

Cohen rolled her eyes. “Damn it, J. P., that's completely different! Bin Laden? These are kills on US soil, some of them American citizens. CIA killing Americans in America? That's 1984 material, folks, really scary stuff.”

Rideout wasn't fazed. “2011, Defense Appropriations Bill authorized the indefinite detainment of American citizens arrested on American soil for suspicion of terrorist activities. 2012, Obama has his attorney general justify killing Americans suspected of terrorist activities. Due process be damned.”

“That authority has never been used!” said Cohen animatedly. “And now you're going from hypotheticals to documented murders? It is a crazy idea!”