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2
SITTING IN A TACKY OFFICEin a 1960s-era strip mall in Annandale, Virginia, Emerson Campbell was not a happy man.
He was a retired Army two-star and, like Travis Devine, Ranger tabbed and scrolled, meaning he had graduated from Ranger School and then been accepted into the elite Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment, the Army’s most prestigious and demanding special ops force. His gunmetal-gray, closely cropped hair and weathered, grim features spoke of a lifetime of discipline and heightened professionalism. And, perhaps most tellingly, all the shit he had seen fighting on behalf of his country through a number of wars and also under-the-radar operations the public would never know about.
Devine sat on the other side of the desk and took in the man who, several months before, had recruited him to serve in the Office of Special Projects under the massive bureaucratic dome of Homeland Security.
Special Projects, thought Devine.It sounds like we plan office parties and cotillions.
“It’s a shitshow, Devine. The Italian and Swiss governments have filed official complaints. Two dead guys in a shot-up train toilet between their countries. Not a good optic.”
“It’s a better optic thanonedead guy, meaning me. IDs on the corpses?”
Campbell shrugged. “Kazakhstan muscle, no more, no less. They’ve killed at least twenty people. All wired funds upon proof of the kill, no traceable interaction with whoever hired them. No way to dig beyond that, which is the whole point.”
“Glad I denied them the twenty-first. And the woman?”
“There was no woman found there,” said Campbell. “She must have recovered and high-tailed it out of there.”
“CCTV?”
“Working on it, though the Italians and Swiss are not exactly too cooperative right now.”
Devine shook his head.Knew I should have taken her out. But she was unconscious and no threat to me.
He caught Campbell studying him. “I know it was a hard call, Devine. Don’t know what I would have done.”
“Well, I gave you a description. Maybe your people can run her down.”
“Now, let’s focus on your new mission.”
“I don’t get a couple days off?” said Devine, only half-jokingly.
“You can rest when you’re dead.”
“Yeah, that’s what they told me in the Army, too.”
Campbell said, “I emailed you the briefing doc. Pull it up.”
Devine opened the attachment to the email on his phone and gazed at the photo of a lovely woman in her late thirties with smooth, pale skin, blond hair, and deep-set, intelligent eyes that seemed to shimmer with unsettling intensity in the midst of all the fine pixels.
Campbell said, “That’s Jennifer Silkwell. You heard of the Silkwells?”
“No, but I’m sure I’ll learn everything about them before this is over.”
“Curtis Silkwell was the senior U.S. senator from Maine. His great-great-grandfather made several fortunes, shipping, fishing, real estate, agriculture. All of that wealth is now mostly gone. They have the old homestead in Maine, but that’s about it.”
“Hewasa senator?”
“He resigned during his third term. Alzheimer’s, which has gotten progressively worse. He was treated at Walter Reed before it became clear there was nothing that could be done. He’s currently at a private facility in Virginia awaiting the end.”
“He was treated at Walter Reed because he was a senator?”
“No, because he was a soldier. He retired from the Marines as a one-star before jumping into politics, getting married, and having a family.” Campbell shot Devine a scrutinizing glance. “Full disclosure, Curt is one of my best friends. We fought together in Vietnam. He saved my life twice.”
“Okay.”
“So this is personal for me, Devine.”
