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She grinned. “Insolent? Sure. Bitch? Probably. But I’m not old. What I am, though, is head of the Magellan Billet, for two more days. I may be its only employee left, but I’m still in charge. So either fire me—or get the hell out of here.”
And she meant every word.
Especially the “not old” part. To this day her personnel file contained no reference to age, only the letters N/A in the space designated for a date of birth.
Litchfield stood. “Okay, Stephanie. We’ll do this your way.”
He couldn’t fire her and they both knew it. But he could at noon on January 20. That was why she’d authorized Cotton to immediately head for Russia without seeking approval. The new AG was wrong. The Justice Department needed the Magellan Billet. Its whole purpose had been to work outside the scope of other intelligence agencies. That was why its headquarters had sat 550 miles south in Atlanta, far away from DC politics. That one decision, made by her years ago, had bred both an independence and an efficiency, and she was proud of that legacy.
Litchfield left the room, but he was right about one thing. All of her agents were gone, the offices in Atlanta shut down.
She had no intention of taking some other post within Justice or allowing herself to be fired. Instead, she was quitting. Time to cash in her pension and find something else to occupy her time. No way she was going to sit around the house all day.
Her mind raced, thinking with a comforting familiarity. Cotton was in trouble and she wasn’t banking on the Russians to help. She hadn’t particularly liked trusting them in the first place but there’d been no choice. All of the risks had been explained to Cotton, who’d assured her he’d stay alert. Now there seemed only one place left for her to turn.
She reached for her smartphone.
And sent a text.
CHAPTER THREE
VIRGINIA
2:40 A.M.
Luke Daniels loved a fight, but what Tennessee country boy didn’t. He’d enjoyed many in high school, especially ones over a girl, then relished them even more during his six years as an Army Ranger. For the past year he’d had his share as a Magellan Billet agent, but sadly those days were over. He’d already received his marching orders, reassigned to the Defense Intelligence Agency, his first day on the job coming Monday, one day after the new president assumed office.
Until then, he was officially on leave.
Yet here he was, in the wee hours of the morning, following another car.
His uncle, the current president of the United States, had personally asked for his assistance. Normally he and his uncle did not see eye-to-eye but, of late, they’d both been trying harder on that relationship. Truth be told, he was glad to help. He loved the Magellan Billet and he liked Stephanie Nelle. She was being dished a raw deal by a bunch of politicians who thought they knew better. Uncle Danny was on his way out to pasture, his political career over. Yet there seemed one more problem, one more something that had captured both the president’s and Stephanie’s attention.
Characteristically, not much had been explained in the way of why he was following the car. His target was a Russian national named Anya Petrova, a curvy blonde with a fine-featured, almond-shaped face and a pair of high cheekbones. Her legs were long and muscled, like a dancer, her movements poised and calculated. Her favorite ensemble seemed to be tight Levi’s tucked into knee-high boots. No makeup either, lending her a slight air of severity, which might have been intentional. She was quite impressive and he wished they’d met under different circumstances. Watching her the past two days had not been all that unpleasant.
She seemed to like Cracker Barrel, visiting twice today, once for lunch, and the other for dinner a few hours ago. After eating she’d hung out in a Virginia motel west of DC, just off Interstate 66. Uncle Danny had provided all the pertinent information. She was thirty-four, the lover of Aleksandr Zorin, an aging former KGB officer now living in southern Siberia. Apparently no one had paid Zorin much mind until a week ago. Then something spooked both the Russians and Uncle Danny, enough that Luke had been dispatched as a hound dog and Cotton Malone sent overseas as point man.
“Just don’t get made,” the president said to him. “Stay with her. Wherever she goes. Can you handle that?”
Their relationship was testy at best, but he had to admit his uncle did know how to run things. The country would miss him, as Luke would miss his former job. He wasn’t looking forward to the Defense Intelligence Agency. After graduating high school, avoiding college, and enlisting in the army, he’d finally found a home at the Billet.
Unfortunately, that was now gone.
He was a mile behind his target, providing a wide berth since there were few cars on the interstate, the winter night clear and calm. Half an hour ago he’d been watching the motel when Anya, carrying an ax, suddenly emerged and left, driving west into Virginia. They were now near Manassas and she was signaling for an exit. He followed suit, coming to the ramp’s end after she turned south on a two-laned, rural highway. He’d have to allow a greater gap to open between them here as there were nowhere near the distractions an interstate highway offered.
Where was she headed in the middle of the friggin’ night?
With an ax?
He thought about calling Uncle Danny and waking him up. He’d been provided with a direct phone number and ordered to report anything immediately, but all they’d done so far was take a ride out in the country.
Anya, half a mile ahead, turned again.
No cars were coming in either direction, the landscape pitch-black for as far as he could see, so he doused his headlights and approached the point where the car had veered from the highway.
He was behind the wheel of his pride and joy. A 1967 silver Mustang, a gift to himself while still in the army. He kept it tucked away inside a garage adjacent to his DC apartment, one of the few possessions he truly cherished. He liked to drive it during the downtime Stephanie Nelle required all Magellan Billet agents to take every four weeks. He paid nearly $25,000 for it from a guy desperate for cash, a bargain considering what the open market charged. It had come in mint condition with a four-speed manual transmission and a souped-up 320hp V-8. Not the best on fuel, but this thing had been built to enjoy when gas was twenty-five cents a gallon.
He saw a driveway, framed on either side by heavy stone pillars, capped with a wrought-iron archway. An iron gate hung askew, the path beyond paved and leading into dark trees. No way he could drive in, since he had no idea how far the path extended or what awaited. The better tack was to use his feet, so he turned onto the drive, passed through the entrance, and parked off into the trees never switching on his headlights. He slipped from the Mustang and quietly closed the door. The night was cold but not bone chilling. The mid-Atlantic states had been enjoying a uncharacteristically mild winter, the heavy snows of recent years bypassing them so far. He wore thick cord trousers and a sweater, along with an insulated jacket and gloves, his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta tucked into a shoulder holster. He didn’t have a flashlight, but he did carry a cell phone that could do in a pinch. He made sure the phone, though, was on silent.
He trotted ahead.
The run was only a couple hundred yards, leading to the black hulk of a rambling two-story house with wings, annexes, and outbuildings. To his left stretched a grassy field stiff under a dusting of frost. Movement caught his attention and he followed the shape of an owl winging out over the field. He remembered those all too clearly from his days growing up in rural Tennessee. Stars sharp as needles dotted a black velvet sky, only a quarter moon animating the heavens. He spotted a car parked in front of the house, a flashlight beam near the front door. He wondered who lived here as there’d been no name, mailbox, or anything identifying the address.
He kept to the trees and snaked a path clear of the snatching brambles. Cold worked its way toward his skin, but the burst of exertion and rising levels of anticipation caused him to sweat. He counted over thirty 16-paned windows along the
front façade. No lights burned anywhere. He heard a rap, like metal on metal, then a splinter of wood. He settled against a tree and peered around its trunk, seeing the flashlight beam fifty yards away disappearing into the house. He wondered about the lack of finesse on entering and, as he came closer, realized the house was derelict and abandoned. Its outside had a Victorian look, most of its clapboard still intact, the walls splotchy with mold and scoured by weather. A few of the ground-floor windows were sheathed in plywood, the ones along the upper floor all exposed. Weeds and brush littered its base, as if no one had offered the place much attention in a long time.
He’d sure love to know who owned it. And why was a Russian national paying it a visit in the middle of the night? Only one way to find out, so he stepped from the copse at the edge of the drive and approached the front doorway, where thick paneled doors had been forced open.
He found his Beretta and gripped the weapon, then entered, careful with his steps. He stood inside a spacious foyer, a rug still covering the floor. A few pieces of furniture remained. A staircase wound upward and open doorways led into adjacent rooms where window treatments hung. Paint had peeled, plaster crumbled, the wallpaper pregnant in too many spots to count, the elements slowly reclaiming what was once theirs.
A hallway stretched ahead.
He listened, feeling as though he were standing in a tomb.
Then a sound.
Banging.
From across the ground floor.
