Final Winter

The lieutenant closed the folder. ‘That’s the official. Unofficial line, you want to hear it?’

‘Christ, yes.’

‘Unofficial, the Feds are cherrypicking people with different skills, putting them together in these teams. Thing is, Bri, you’re going hunting.’

‘Hunting? For who?’

The lieutenant made a gesture with his head, like he was pointing out something outside, and Brian looked out the window and knew what the lieutenant was pointing at. That near and terribly empty spot on the horizon, where the two buildings had once stood.

Brian said, ‘Okay, I get it now. Shit.’

The lieutenant offered him a slight smile. ‘Go and do well, Bri. And maybe the Feds, looking at your record and all, decided that with your dad it makes sense that you—’

Brian interrupted, saying, ‘So. When do I go? Next week? Next month?’

The lieutenant shook his head. ‘Guess I wasn’t clear, Bri. They want you now.’

‘Now? Like what?’

His boss reached for a phone. ‘Like now I’m calling a squad car, to get your ass to LaGuardia and to DC later this morning. That kind of now.’

~ * ~

And through the open door of the conference room, the princess came in, the leader of Tiger Team Seven, Adrianna Scott. Brian eyed her carefully as she came into the room. Unlike Stacy out in the front entrance, Adrianna didn’t dress flashy, though there was something about the way she dressed and carried herself that Brian found interesting. Of course, if his ex-wife Marcy had been around, she’d laugh in that braying tone of hers (and why had he ever found that laugh attractive? He blamed Jameson’s Irish Whiskey and Marcy’s impressive chest) and say, sure, interesting. Another way of saying you’re just a horny jerk, can’t keep your eyes off the girls.

Adrianna looked tired, her long dark hair drawn back in a simple ponytail, with a tiny red ribbon. She had on a charcoal-gray skirt that reached mid-calf and a black pullover sweater. She carried her laptop under one arm and opened it up after she’d sat down. Brian looked around at the collection of characters, gathered here in this so-called undisclosed location, thinking of what weird shit had to have happened to have brought them all together. Himself, a New York City cop. Darren, the thin blond kid. Something to do with the National Security Agency. The doc, from Atlanta and the Centers for Disease Control. Monty, an active-duty military officer — who for some reason kept his branch of service secret — with a quiet smile and the sharp confidence that if he had to, he could kill everybody in this room and leave while munching a doughnut, not even having broken out in a sweat. And the princess Herself, with brown eyes and mocha-colored skin, an officer with the Central Intelligence Agency.

She smiled and said, ‘So sorry to have gotten you all here on a Sunday, but it could not be avoided.’

By now Darren and Monty had torn their gazes away from the computer screen, and Brian kept his hands folded on his stomach. On the far wall the plasma screen flickered into life as Adrianna started tapping away on her keyboard. Letters appeared, spelling out an Arab phrase.

Brian looked up and then glanced over at Adrianna, who — surprisingly enough — now had her elbows on the table and was slowly rubbing her temples with her long fingers. She said, ‘The phrase shown here is the Arabic for May 29. That’s a very special day for some fundamental Islamists, May 29. The day Istanbul — known back then as Constantinople — fell to the Muslim forces in 1453. A day celebrated in many parts of the Islamic world, a day in which the infidels suffered a defeat that shook the very foundations of the Christian rulers in Europe.’

Adrianna raised her head, no longer smiling. ‘A special day, indeed. Its anniversary is coming up in less than four weeks, gentlemen.’

Brian felt something cold start to crawl its way through his stomach, like being on a stakeout and realizing that your radio batteries have drained away in silence, just as four or five assholes with guns are walking your way.

‘And on that day, gentlemen, we are going to get hit.’

Monty spoke up, his voice lilting lightly with a Southern accent. ‘Hit? Really?’

A sad nod.

‘Hit, gentlemen — and hit hard.’

CHAPTER FOUR

On the island of Bali, in the tourist resort town of Kuta, twenty-year-old Ranon Degun stood before the blackened and twisted wreckage of the Sari nightclub in the light rain. Wilted and faded plastic flowers were scattered as offerings on the nearest pile of debris. Ranon kept his face impassive as he looked at what had once been a gathering place for foreigners, mostly Australians, loud and drunk Australians, swaggering through, acting like they were the rulers of this place. But some time ago holy warriors had attacked this nightclub, had killed more than two hundred infidels, and for that Ranon was pleased indeed.