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    The Project Series Books 1-3: The Project
    The Project Series Books 1-3: The Project
    The Project Series Books 1-3: The Project
    Ebook864 pages14 hours

    The Project Series Books 1-3: The Project

    By Alex Lukeman

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    About this ebook

    Welcome to the world of the Project, where things are seldom as they seem. Small, effective, lethal, the Project is a deep black counter terrorism team reporting only to the president. The Project Series, Books 1-3 presents the Project's first three missions, complete, as they happened.

     In White Jade the team comes up against a ruthless general obsessed with finding the elixir of immortality who seeks to seize control of China and attack America. In The Lance, the Project uncovers betrayal at the highest levels of government and a long-standing Nazi conspiracy to conquer the United States from within. In The Seventh Pillar, a fanatical terrorist who believes he's been chosen by God to usher in a new apocalypse threatens nuclear holocaust.

     Three action-packed books in one convenient place.

    Welcome to the world of the Project, where things are seldom as they seem. Small, effective, lethal, the Project is a deep black counter terrorism team reporting only to the president. The Project Series, Books 1-3 presents the Project's first three missions, complete, as they happened.

     In White Jade the team comes up against a ruthless general obsessed with finding the elixir of immortality who seeks to seize control of China and attack America. In The Lance, the Project uncovers betrayal at the highest levels of government and a long-standing Nazi conspiracy to conquer the United States from within. In The Seventh Pillar, a fanatical terrorist who believes he's been chosen by God to usher in a new apocalypse threatens nuclear holocaust.

     Three action-packed books in one convenient place.

    Welcome to the world of the Project, where things are seldom as they seem. Small, effective, lethal, the Project is a deep black counter terrorism team reporting only to the president. The Project Series, Books 1-3 presents the Project's first three missions, complete, as they happened.

     In White Jade the team comes up against a ruthless general obsessed with finding the elixir of immortality who seeks to seize control of China and attack America. In The Lance, the Project uncovers betrayal at the highest levels of government and a long-standing Nazi conspiracy to conquer the United States from within. In The Seventh Pillar, a fanatical terrorist who believes he's been chosen by God to usher in a new apocalypse threatens nuclear holocaust.

     Three action-packed books in one convenient place.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAlex Lukeman
    Release dateJan 26, 2019
    ISBN9781386184430
    The Project Series Books 1-3: The Project
    Author

    Alex Lukeman

    Alex Lukeman writes action/adventure thrillers featuring a covert intelligence unit called the PROJECT and is the author of the award-winning Amazon best seller, The Tesla Secret. Alex is a former Marine and psychotherapist and uses his experience of the military and human nature to inform his work. He likes riding old, fast motorcycles and playing guitar, usually not at the same time. You can email him at [email protected]. He loves hearing from readers and promises he will get back to you.

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      Book preview

      The Project Series Books 1-3 - Alex Lukeman

      Books in the Project Series

      White Jade

      The Lance

      The Seventh Pillar

      Black Harvest

      The Tesla Secret

      The Nostradamus File

      The Ajax Protocol

      The Eye of Shiva

      Black Rose

      The Solomon Scroll

      The Russian Deception

      The Atlantis Stone

      The Cup

      High Alert

      Solomon's Gold

      Phoenix

      The Last Option

      The Black Templar

      To all who serve to protect freedom.

      White Jade

      Chapter One

      ––––––––

      The dream splintered into shards of red and black, a kaleidoscope gone wrong. William Connor sat up gasping for air and waited for his heart to stop pounding. The green numerals on the clock by his bedside read two-thirty in the morning.

      Something wasn't right.

      Had he set the alarms?

      After a moment he got out of bed and shrugged on a robe. He moved to the stairs of his San Francisco home. Below, a pool of yellow light from a single desk lamp spilled across the polished wooden floor. The rest of the room was in darkness.

      His old body protested as he descended the stairs. He started toward the alarm box. A large man stepped from the shadows and blocked his way. Connor's heart skipped a beat and settled to erratic thumping.

      You! What are you doing here?

      Strong arms grabbed Connor from behind and wrestled him to the chair by his desk. Someone wrapped tape around him. The robe fell open, exposing his pale genitals. He was helpless.

      Is it money? I have money. Tell me what you want.

      The large man loomed over Connor. He smelled unpleasant, a greasy smell of testosterone and stale sweat.

      Yes, money. And I want the book.

      What book?

      The large man slapped Connor across the face, a casual blow.

      The book. The one from Bhutan.

      Connor tasted blood. It's not here!

      Then you will tell me where it is. First, the money. I want the account numbers and access codes.

      William Connor was a rich man. Access to those accounts gave control over hundreds of millions of dollars.

      Who are you?

      I am your worst nightmare. Tell me what I want or I will hurt you.

      Almost as an afterthought, the man picked up and examined a delicate, antique porcelain vase covered with an exquisite design of flowers and birds. The soft glaze glowed in the dim light. He smiled.

      There were only two things William Connor truly loved. One was his niece, Selena. The other was the joy of things old and beautiful.

      Please be careful with that, he said. It's very old.

      The man looked at the fragile vase and smiled again. He held it in front of Connor in his huge hand and squeezed. It shattered into dust. Connor felt his chest tighten.

      If I ask a question and you do not answer, I will hurt you. Do you understand?

      Yes.

      The numbers.

      I don't have them here. All that is in my office.

      The man sighed. He went into the kitchen. Connor could hear him rummaging through the kitchen drawers. He came back with a small red-handled pair of pruning shears Connor used on the rose bushes in the garden.

      He grabbed the old man's left hand and pinched the blades together and cut off the little finger.

      Connor screamed.

      The man dug the point of the shears into the bone below Connor's eye. Connor screamed again from the pain. Blood ran down his cheek.

      The fog is thick, outside. The house is solid. No one will hear you scream. Your right eye is next.

      The old man's bladder emptied, soaking his robe and the chair. Someone laughed, behind him.

      I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Don't hurt me again! He began babbling the numbers, blurting them out. Sudden pain started and spread to Connor's left arm, sharp and immediate, a burning, blossoming bolt of fire. He stopped speaking and tried to catch his breath.

      Where is the book? The man was shouting.

      Pain exploded in Connor's chest. As vision faded, his last sight was the terrifying, angry face of his executioner.

      Chapter Two

      ––––––––

      Nicholas Carter wasn't thinking about the grenade. He was thinking about the temperature gauge on his rental Ford, pegged in the red. He pulled into the parking lot at the Project and stepped out into the heat. Steam boiled under the hood. A green pool spread out under the car. His head felt like it was wrapped in iron. He wished he was back at his cabin in California, not standing in Virginia with his shoes sticking to the asphalt.

      Carter scanned the surrounding area. He noted the parked cars, all empty. He crossed the lot to the building housing the Project, like hundreds of others in the Metro area. The only difference to a casual observer was the array of antennas bristling on the roof.

      Carter went through security and walked past the elevator to the stairs. He climbed past the second floor housing the computers and backup generators and communications. He passed the third floor where the analysts lived. He exited the stairs on the fourth floor, the top floor, where Director Harker's office was. He placed his hand on the biometric scanner outside the door of her office and went in.

      Elizabeth Harker looked up from behind her desk. She was small, with milk-white skin, small, pointed ears and raven black hair. Her eyes were like a cat's, wide and green. She looked like an elf dressed in black and white, but a kind of elf you wouldn't want to mess with.

      On her desk was a file with his name on it, a silver pen that had belonged to FDR and a picture of the Twin Towers burning on 9/11. She kept the picture to remind herself of why she was there.

      Have a seat. Harker opened the file.

      He sat and waited.

      The shrink says you're fit to go back in the field. Are you?

      I'm fine.

      No more flashbacks?

      No.

      Not for three months. He'd thrown out the pills the doctor had given him. They'd flattened everything into a narrow monotone that made him feel like he was living in a fading black and white picture. He didn't think Harker needed to know about the dreams.

      Harker nodded. She made a note in the file and placed it in a drawer.

      A large, flat monitor was mounted on one wall of the office. Harker did something at her desk and the display came to life with a picture of an elderly man. His eyes were blue. He looked like the sort of man you'd like for a Grandfather.

      She said, This is William Connor. He was a very rich man. He was also a personal friend of the President.

      Was?

      Someone tortured him until he died of a heart attack. They cut off one of his fingers with pruning shears. Then they transferred money from his accounts and tore his home apart.

      An electric tension settled across his shoulders. Cutting off the finger of an old man made things personal, something he could grab on to. It was better when it was personal. He needed personal. It helped motivate him. Going forth for God and Country didn't work too well for him anymore, not since Afghanistan. Not since South America.

      That's cold. How much money?

      Around four hundred million.

      Why are we getting involved with this? This looks like FBI or Treasury territory.

      We intercepted an encrypted satellite transmission last week from the Chinese consulate in San Francisco. There's a Colonel from Chinese Military Intelligence in the consulate named Wu. He pretends he's a trade official. He called his boss, General Yang. Yang is chief of their MI. Wu told him about an old book Connor found in Bhutan and Yang ordered him to get the book and Connor's money. The money went to accounts in Macau controlled by Yang.

      Chinese MI? Why would they do something as stupid as that? It doesn't make sense. What's in the book?

      We don't know. Connor had a niece who might know. I want to ask her about it. Doctor Connor is coming here today.

      Doctor?

      PhDs in oriental and ancient languages. She's one of the top experts in the country.

      Carter pictured an expert PhD niece. Someone academic looking. Maybe in an earth tone baggy suit, with large glasses and gray hair, around fifty.

      Harker said, The FBI had Wu under routine surveillance. I requested a photo and they sent one over but my gut says they're holding something back.

      Nick didn't respond.

      Zeke Jordan is the liaison. You know him. Talk with him and see what you can find out.

      A voice came from the intercom on Harker's desk.

      Director, Doctor Connor is here.

      Escort her up.

      While they waited, Carter thought about his car and decided to call Triple A and ride back with the tow.

      Chapter Three

      ––––––––

      Selena Connor didn't look like a fiftyish, gray-haired professor. It wasn't the way she looked that got Carter's attention, though that would have been enough. It was the way she came into the room, all contained, taut energy, with the rippling grace of an athlete. She was in her thirties. Her hair was short and reddish blond. Her face was tan from the outdoors. She had high cheekbones and violet eyes. There was a small mole above her lip.

      She wasn't wearing a baggy suit or big glasses. She had on a smooth silk jacket and slacks and a pale blouse that picked up the violet color. In her left hand she carried a black leather computer case.

      Carter stood and Harker introduced him. They all sat down.

      Harker said, What have you got there?

      My uncle's laptop. He'd never left it with me before. I haven't looked at it, but I thought you might want to. Her voice was controlled. There were lines of tension in her face.

      Got the lid on, Nick thought.

      Doctor Connor, Elizabeth said.

      Please call me Selena.

      Selena. The people who killed your uncle were after a book he acquired in Bhutan. We need to know what's in it.

      Selena gave Harker an odd look. How did she know about the book?

      It's gone. I don't know where it is. I haven't read all of it, but it's a copy of an ancient text about immortality, mostly written in Sanskrit. Books like that are rare, but this one is unique. What's in it is impossible.

      Impossible? Harker tapped her pen against her lip.

      Part of it is written in Linear A. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I'd never believe it. Linear A is one of two written languages from the Minoan Empire, before 1600 BCE. There are no books written in Linear A. There shouldn't be anything Minoan in the Himalayan region at all.

      You're sure the book is gone?

      My uncle kept it on his desk, but it's not there now. He was going to scan it onto his computer.

      So it might be on that laptop you brought.

      It could be.

      Harker began tapping on her desk. The money from your uncle's accounts went to China.

      China? Part of the book is about the first Chinese emperor, Qin Huang.

      Emperor Huang? Carter said. The one with the soldiers and horses?

      Yes. Huang placed an army of terracotta soldiers and horses outside his tomb. Chinese farmers found it in '74. It's a big tourist attraction.

      Selena brushed a wisp of hair away from her forehead.

      The book described Huang's search for immortality. He was obsessed with it. It also repeated old stories of treasure in his tomb. Everyone knows where it is but it's never been excavated.

      Harker told Selena about the intercept.

      Then you know who did this! Can't you arrest him, this...Colonel, or whatever he is?

      We don't have hard evidence. Besides, he has diplomatic immunity.

      Nick's ear began itching. Since he was a kid it had itched when things were about to get complicated, a personal early warning system. Then again, sometimes it was just an itch. He scratched it.

      Harker set down her pen. Maybe there's something on that laptop. Let's take a look.

      Selena handed her the case. Harker took the computer out and plugged it into a port on her desk. The display booted up on the wall monitor. The screen filled with folder icons.

      Lots of files. She clicked on one labeled Beijing. The file was a list of bank account numbers in the Chinese capitol.

      That might help track the money. I don't see anything about a book.

      Selena said, It looks like financial files labeled by location, like the Bahamas or Caymans, or by industry and city. There's one labeled Li Shan. That's where the emperor is buried. Open that one.

      The file was a draft proposal to excavate the tomb of the First Emperor, complete with time lines and cost breakdowns. There was nothing about the book in the file.

      There's a file with my name, Selena said.

      Let's see it.

      It was a letter from William Connor to his niece, dated a week before his death.

      My Dearest Selena,

      You know how I hate clichés. Please forgive me for the one I use now. Quite simply, if you are reading this letter then something has happened to me. I do not contemplate this with equanimity, my dear, but life sometimes forces unpleasant possibilities upon us. I am leaving this note and my computer with you in hopes you never read it.

      I think I am being watched by agents of the Chinese government and that it has something to do with the book I acquired in Bhutan. My translation is incomplete, but it seems there are historical inaccuracies regarding the death and burial of the First Emperor, and that these relate to a supposed elixir of eternal life.

      I have prepared a proposal regarding possible excavation of the First Emperor's tomb at Li Shan. A week ago I met with a Chinese consular official named Wu Chen to discuss obtaining permission to fund and participate in such an important project. Wu offered to put me in touch with the correct people in Beijing.

      In the course of our meeting I talked about the book. Not long after that I noticed a large and rather menacing Chinese man observing me at a restaurant I frequent. Then I noticed that same man in other places, at other times. It may have nothing to do with Wu, but it seems too coincidental to me.

      I feel threatened. So I write this letter to you, although it may be just the foolish act of an old man.

      I have placed the book in a safe place. If it does hold a clue to the secret of immortality or a key to the emperor's treasures, it is a dangerous thing to have in one's possession.

      Do you remember, when we used to have our summer time together at the old mine, when you were a child, the special place you found to secret away your most precious things? That is where you will find the book.

      My dear Selena, if you are indeed reading this, please know that you have always been a source of joy and delight for this old uncle of yours.

      With all my love, Uncle William

      They read the letter again. Selena sat rigidly in her chair. Carter watched her. It was an old habit, watching. It told him things. Right now it told him Selena was wound up tight. Close to her uncle, he thought, but she wasn't going to let anyone see it. How she really felt.

      He knew what that was like.

      Harker said, Do you know what he was talking about? The place he hid the book?

      Selena's voice was controlled, neutral. My family found gold in California in 1850. There's a house at the old mine property. In the front yard there's an ore cart full of rocks from the mine. When I was a child I hid things under the rocks. That must be where he put it. I'm surprised he didn't put it in one of his safe deposit boxes.

      No safe deposit box keys have turned up. Harker twirled her pen.

      He had at least three.

      The FBI searched his office and home. We'll check with them.

      If they have the keys, they know what's in the boxes. Nick looked at Harker. I'll ask Jordan when I talk with him.

      Do that. Then I want you to go to California with Doctor Connor and retrieve that book. Does that work for you, Selena?

      Anything that helps.

      Why do you want me along? Carter said.

      They didn't get the book. If they think Selena has it they might go after her. I want you to keep an eye out. She looked at her watch and turned to Selena. It's too late to get a flight today. We'll book one for tomorrow. What airport, Selena?

      Sacramento. The mine is only an hour away.

      We'll arrange a car.

      Carter said, We can use mine. It's already there. He'd flown out of Sacramento. His truck was in the long term lot at the airport.

      Good. Hook up with Jordan before you go. Call me after you find the book. We'll search the rest of these files and follow up.

      What do I tell Jordan?

      Harker tapped her pen on the desk. Tell him about the financial accounts. We'll keep the book to ourselves for now. There's no need for the Bureau to know about it.

      Chapter Four

      ––––––––

      Earlier that same day, Colonel Wu Chen was sitting in a secluded red leather booth at the Happy Family restaurant in San Francisco.

      Muted sounds drifted up from the street below. The only other customer was an old man across the room reading his newspaper. The smell of rice, pork and noodles mingled with the murmured conversation of waiters huddled in a corner. Wu sipped his tea. He took a bright red carnation from the vase on the table and twirled it in his hands. He thought about his conversation with the General.

      Tell me about this book.

      Yang's wet voice had echoed through the satellite link.

      The American obtained it in Bhutan. The book concerns the First Emperor. It is a medical text with a formula for a draught of immortality. That is why I contacted you.

      The General was always interested in anything to do with the First Emperor and his quest for immortality. Wu needed to keep General Yang happy.

      What is the name of this book?

      The American said it translates as 'The Golden Garuda'.

      Wu heard a sharp intake of breath. When Yang spoke again, his voice was controlled. Wu sensed his excitement.

      I have an assignment for you.

      Sir.

      I require the book. Obtain it and deliver it to me. There was a pause. Wu waited. The American is rich?

      Yes, sir. He has great wealth.

      Access his financial accounts. Transfer the funds to the account numbers I send after this conversation.

      Yes, sir. Are there any restrictions?

      Use any means necessary. Make sure there are no complications after.

      Yes, sir.

      Inform me when you have succeeded.

      Wu toyed with the flower and sipped his tea. The book hadn't been in Connor's home. The niece must know where it was. His agents would bring her to him for questioning.

      Wu thought about interrogating her. He felt the beginning of an erection. He would strip her naked and bind her. That always unnerved prisoners, especially the women. Choy could question her, but sometimes his sergeant got carried away and damaged the subject beyond repair before Wu learned what he needed. No, he'd do it himself.

      The water technique was effective, but time consuming if the subject was stubborn. Wu preferred the blowtorch and pliers. Or knives, the kind you'd find in any kitchen. Simple tools were always best.

      He reached for his tea and glanced down. The shredded petals of the flower made a delicate pattern against the scarred table top. He brushed them aside with his hand. They fell to the floor in a shower of red, like drops of blood.

      Tinkling green jade prosperity symbols over the restaurant doorway announced the arrival of his Sergeant.

      Choy Gang's skin was the color of the Mongolian desert on a winter evening, betraying his mixed heritage. He was tall and weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. His head was large and sat like a cantaloupe with crumpled ears on his massive shoulders. His hands were broad clubs, the knuckles scarred and bulbous.

      Choy's fleshy face was marred with acne scars. His eyes were small and close set, almond-shaped, an odd golden color. A shiny blue shirt stretched taut across his massive chest and arms under a loose fitting brown jacket.

      In the People's Liberation Army, Choy had found a home. In Colonel Wu, he had found a Master.

      Choy cast a contemptuous glance at the elderly customer across the room. He squeezed into the booth. One of the waiters poured more tea. Wu ordered food in a rapid burst of Mandarin.

      When the waiter was gone Wu said, You had no trouble obtaining the information for Connor's accounts?

      No, sir. He resisted at first, but it didn't take much to convince him to give me the numbers. Choy thought about how the old man had screamed when his finger had been snipped off. He smiled, showing the gaps between his yellowed teeth.

      You are sure the book was not in Connor's home?

      Yes, sir. I am positive it was not there. His heart gave out too soon, before he revealed its location.

      That was unfortunate. But you did well. Now I have another task for you.

      Wu watched Choy perk up. He's like a good dog, Wu thought. Give him something new and interesting to do and he's happy.

      The American owned a house three or four hours from here. Take some men tomorrow and search for the book. Use a vehicle from the black pool.

      The black pool was a small fleet of cars untraceable to the Chinese Consulate.

      Wu took an envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table to Choy. Money and a driver's license. The directions to the place are also there.

      Choy put the envelope in his jacket pocket as the waiter returned with steaming plates of food.

      Sergeant, Wu said, enjoy this delicious dim sum. It's as good as we get at home.

      Across the room, the elderly Chinese man took a last sip of his cold tea. He folded his newspaper and rose. He shuffled by the cash register to pay and carefully made his way down the steep stairs. His superiors would be pleased when they learned of the meeting he had just overheard.

      Chapter Five

      ––––––––

      Nicholas Carter and Selena Connor stood in the heat of the parking lot. All the parked cars were still empty. Carter put his phone away. Two and a half hours before Triple A could get him out of here.

      Can you give me a ride into town? My rental's no good. He gestured at the mess under his car.

      Of course. I'm parked just over there.

      A new Mercedes CL600 gleamed in the late afternoon light. Twelve cylinders and over five hundred horsepower. A fast, luxury car. A driver's car. A money car. Not many women drove cars with that kind of power. It said something about her. Nick got his bag from the rental and climbed in.

      Nice car.

      I just got it a few weeks ago.

      She started up, drove out of the lot.

      Where are you staying? he asked.

      The Mayflower Renaissance. I stay there when I'm in Washington and leave the car there when I'm out of town.

      That's not far from my place. Where do you live when you're not in D.C.?

      San Francisco. I've got a loft in North Beach.

      They pulled onto the Interstate. The interior was quiet except for the whisper of the air conditioner. Carter relaxed into the leather.

      They were doing a little over seventy. Selena glanced in the rear view mirror and switched lanes. A BMW 740 with blacked out windows passed her and cut sharply in front.

      Jerk, she muttered under her breath. In the side mirror Nick saw a black Suburban pull in behind, riding their tail. His ear began itching.

      They entered a construction zone. The right lane of the highway was bordered by heavy cement barriers laid end to end. Orange signs warned of doubled fines and men at work.

      The Suburban rammed into them and drove the Mercedes into the cement. The car rebounded from the barrier in a shower of sparks and fishtailed back onto the roadway. In front, the BMW blocked them. Selena fought for control. The Suburban came alongside on the left and broadsided her back into the barrier.

      The front right fender and hood buckled. Something flew over the roof. Sparks streamed by Nick's window. The Mercedes slid along the cement in a din of screeching steel.

      Drivers swerved around them, horns blaring.

      Carter pulled out his .45. Selena's eyes narrowed.

      Hang on, she said.

      She hit the brakes and the big discs on the Mercedes grabbed the wheels. Carter wasn't ready. The seat belt stopped his head inches from the dash. The Suburban surged past on the left, scraping strips from the car, taking the mirror with it. Selena shifted down. She floored the accelerator and the five hundred horses came to life. She cut across panicked traffic into the outer lane.

      They shot past the SUV and the BMW. The car filled with the smooth growl of the engine and the sound of pavement under the tires.

      The speedometer climbed past ninety. Selena wove in and out of the traffic and clipped a red Honda. It skewed across the highway and flipped over onto the grass median. In the side mirror, Carter saw a gray sedan slam into an old pickup filled with furniture. Chests and chairs spilled across the roadway.

      A quarter mile ahead a blinking yellow arrow on the back of a truck and a string of orange and white barrels funneled three lanes into two. They were about to run out of room. The cement streamed by on the right, a blurring, silent ripple of gray outside his window.

      Shit, he thought. He calmed himself, lowered his heart rate, getting ready for whatever was coming. The gun rested on his thigh. He was out of control, but the car was so comfortable. Carter glanced at Selena. She gripped the wheel, her face set, absorbed in the traffic and the road. The speedometer hung at a hundred.

      A long, wide gap in the cement barrier opened along the right onto an excavated parking area with neat rows of equipment and stacks of supplies. Selena slowed, shifted down, stood on the emergency brake and wrenched the wheel over. The rear end slid smoking to the left in a howl of burning rubber. In one fluid motion she released the brake and whipped the wheel back to center. The Mercedes shot through the gap and went airborne over the edge of the road and down hard onto gravel.

      The front tires blew out. The car corkscrewed and slewed sideways and sprayed gravel and dirt in a wide arc. They fishtailed across the lot. The car slammed to a jarring halt against a pile of  rebar and steel. Steam erupted under the buckled hood.

      The BMW and Suburban caught up and stopped on the highway. Two men jumped from the car, guns in their hands. Two more piled out of the Suburban.

      Carter pushed Selena down into her seat and fired twice at the windshield. The shots deafened him inside the car. The glass spider-webbed. He fired again. A large piece of the windshield blew out. He fired at the first man out of the BMW and missed. He fired again and the man spun backwards, arms splayed wide.

      Carter shot the second man in the chest, then turned toward the others. He ducked. The two from the Suburban opened up with their pistols. The car windows disappeared in a shower of flying glass. Bullets thumped into the sides of the car.

      Something clipped his ear. Selena was bent low behind the wheel with her hands covering her ears. He let off three more rounds over her head. A third man doubled over and fell face down on the pavement. The fourth ran back behind the Suburban. Carter made out a driver hunched down behind the wheel and shot him.

      The BMW drove away, fast. The last man pulled the body of the driver from behind the wheel of the SUV. He climbed in and took off on smoking tires. Carter fired after him until the slide locked back on his pistol.

      For one or two seconds the Suburban kept going straight. Then it heeled right in a tilting, impossible turn and flipped over onto the driver's side. It slid along the pavement showering sparks and shedding pieces of metal, glass and chrome until it came to rest. With a loud thump, it burst into flame.

      The BMW was gone, out of sight.

      Are you all right? His words sounded flat and far away. His ears rang from the pistol shots.

      What? Yes, I'm okay, I think. She sat up, brushed glass from her hair, and looked at him. You're bleeding.

      The Suburban burned with fierce, red beauty. A black column of smoke rose into a sky scattered with clouds turning pink and gold from the lowering sun. He felt blood dripping on the side of his neck.

      He wanted to look in the rearview mirror but it was gone.

      On the highway, people were getting out of their cars. Holding the .45 high, Carter ejected the empty magazine and inserted a fresh one. He racked the slide.

      His door was blocked shut.

      Can you open your door?

      She pushed hard. It groaned open with a sound of bent metal. Selena got out. He slid across the seat and stood beside her.

      Stay here. Smoke from the flaming Suburban swirled around him. It smelled of burning rubber and roasting flesh. Nick felt his mind try to pull him back to Afghanistan. He pushed the memory away.

      He walked toward the motionless figures on the ground, toe to heel, bent low, holding the .45 straight out in front with both hands. He nudged the first body with his foot. A pistol lay on the ground, a Beretta by the looks of it. He kicked it away.

      The thick steel and leather of the Mercedes and bad shooting had kept the nine millimeter rounds from penetrating far into the body of the car. Something with more punch, he thought, he'd be dead. Selena would be dead.

      Sightless Asian eyes stared up at him. Carter checked the others, one by one. His .45 hollow points had done a lot of damage. None of them were breathing. They all looked Asian. He figured the driver cooking in the SUV would turn out to be the same.

      He put the pistol in his shoulder holster and went back to where Selena stood by the car.

      What did they want? She was pale under her tan.

      You. I don't think they expected trouble.

      She clasped her arms around herself. He wondered if she was about to faint. Then her face got tight and angry.

      Goddamn it, this is America, not fucking Afghanistan! This isn't supposed to happen here. That was a new car. Look at it!

      She surprised him, the language. He hadn't figured her for someone who would swear like that. He looked at the car.

      Her hundred and fifty thousand dollar Mercedes was totaled. The front end was buckled and listing to the right. The tires were spider webs of shredded metal and rubber. There was a long dented scrape along the driver's side. All the windows were gone. The ground around the car was littered with tiny fragments of broken glass. The beautiful paint job was pocked with bullet holes. Antifreeze and oil made a widening pool on the dirt.

      Maybe the insurance will cover it, he said. I'm going to make a call.

      She looked at him like he was crazy. She shook her head.

      A news helicopter circled overhead, getting pictures to feed the greed for violence on the evening news. Sirens wailed in the distance. Carter took out his phone and called the Director. She'd get them out of the clutches of the law a lot faster than explanations would.

      At least his headache was gone.

      Chapter Six

      ––––––––

      Word came down. Two hours later the cops let them go. The Director sent a car. They rode in silence over to the Mayflower.

      I need a drink, she said. Let's get one here at the hotel.

      Carter's jacket and shirt were streaked with blood. His ear was bandaged where a round had taken off most of the lobe. He gestured at the ruined jacket.

      You think they'll let me in? Might scare the customers.

      They'll let you in. You're with me. She was wired.

      They went inside. People turned to look and then quickly away again. They strode through the lobby and into the bar and took a table in back.

      The waiter came over. He seemed not to see Nick's bloody appearance.

      Good evening, Art.

      Good evening, Doctor Connor.

      I'll have a Long Island iced tea, with the premium.

      And you, sir?

      A double Jameson's, straight up, soda back.

      He wrote it down and left. They waited for the drinks. The waiter returned.

      Selena downed a third of her drink and set her glass on the table.

      Carter said, I was going to offer you dinner somewhere. Maybe another time.

      People just tried to kill us and you're thinking about dinner?

      He shrugged. Still have to eat. You all right?

      She took another hit from her glass. Better.

      Want another?

      Yes.

      Carter signaled the waiter.

      When he came over she said, Art, can you bring us some calamari and a cheese plate, maybe some bread and oil on the side, with some of those little sausages? And another round?

      Nick reached for his wallet. I'll get it.

      She touched his hand. Please. Let me. If you hadn't been with me I wouldn't be sitting here right now.

      True. He put his wallet away.

      Where did you learn to drive like that? he said.

      I took a course in case I ever needed it. My uncle was wealthy, it made me a potential target. I thought I might have to get away fast some day.

      You were right. Why didn't the airbags deploy?

      I turned them off. There's a switch on the dash. She emptied her glass. I never thought anyone would shoot at me.

      They missed, that's what counts. Harker's putting a guard outside your room tonight.

      Selena fiddled with her straw. You always carry that gun?

      Yes. You shoot?

      I've got a Ladysmith, but I don't carry it. I never felt I needed to, but I will now. I'm a good shot.

      She took the straw from her glass, looked down at it and twisted it in her hands.

      I can't get over how fast it was. I don't know what to think. People died out there.

      Better them than you.

      Maybe they just wanted money. I could have given them that.

      I don't think so. I think someone wants that book. It would have been bad if they'd grabbed you.

      You think they know about the house? Where we're going?

      Probably not. They don't know the book is in California and they think you're here in D.C. It should be okay.

      Carter wasn't sure it would be okay, but there wasn't anything to do about it. Keep his eyes open.

      Art brought the food and another round.

      How did you get involved with Harker? she asked.

      She recruited me when I came back from Afghanistan. A friend introduced us.

      What was it like, over there?

      The memories started. He didn't want them. It was insane. He picked up his glass and changed the subject. Harker said you're a language expert?

      Dialects and ancient languages. I give lectures and I consult with NSA. I come to Washington a lot. She sipped her drink. Your Director seems pretty sharp.

      Not much gets by her.

      What branch of the service were you in?

      Marine Recon, thirteen years.

      There was an awkward pause. Carter picked up a piece of bread.

      She said, You have any family around here?

      No. My mother's in California. She's got Alzheimer's. My sister is two years older than me. We don't see eye to eye on things. My father's dead.

      Something about Selena made it easy to talk.

      My father was a drunk. He used to beat the hell out of my mother and me. He was one of the reasons I went into the Marines, to do something about people like him. People who use fear to get what they want. I figured the Corps would give me a shot at making a difference. It didn't work out like I thought.

      Nick looked at the gleaming bottles behind the bar, thinking about his father.

      How about you? he said.

      Something flickered across her face, a moment's darkness. My parents and brother died when I was ten. Uncle William brought me up. There's no one else now.

      She set a half eaten snack down on her plate. How are we going to stop these people who came after us?

      With Harker on it we'll get them. It might take some time.

      I want to help.

      We need to know what's in the book and why they want it. Maybe you could translate it.

      The Sanskrit's no problem. Everyone guesses at Linear A.

      Nick looked at his watch. I have to make a call. Thanks for the drinks.

      My pleasure.

      Here comes your bodyguard. He gestured at a tall man coming into the bar. Harker will send a car in the morning. You want me to walk you to your room?

      No, I'll be fine.

      He got a cab outside the hotel and thought about her standing on a highway littered with spent shells and bodies. Standing in an instant war zone. She could have gotten hysterical. Instead, she'd been pissed about her car.

      He liked her for that.

      Chapter Seven

      ––––––––

      General Yang Siyu peered out at the barren wasteland of China's Lop Nur nuclear testing range. The desert rippled under the furnace glare of the Mongolian sun. Yang stood with his feet planted apart, hands clasped behind his back. The hardened concrete building smelled of stale stress and the dry odor of electricity. Racks of instruments lined the long room. Rows of fluorescent lights reflected from banks of electronic equipment, cold counterpoint to the searing sunlight outside.

      A thin, dry, angry looking man stood next to Yang’s squat form. The creases on his immaculate uniform were as sharp as the harsh contours of his face. Lieutenant General Lu Cheng commanded the missile base at Luoyang, where China’s long range ICBMs were targeted on the West. Lu looked at the clock on the wall.

      Two minutes. This warhead will increase our strike range and destructive yield at the same time. We must have these.

      If the test goes well. Yang’s voice was wet, throaty.

      Deng has assured me it will go well.

      Deng Bingwen was chief research scientist in China’s nuclear weapons program. A graduate of America’s MIT, he was considered a treasure among the scientific elite of the People’s Republic, if always suspect because of his American education.

      The treasure himself came over to the two generals. Deng was a mouse of a man, small, his sparse hair slicked back from his domed forehead. Large glasses with thick plastic frames set crookedly over his nose. He wore a white laboratory coat two sizes too large on his stooped frame, making him seem even smaller. He nodded his head nervously at Yang, almost a bow, smiling to hide his feelings of unease.

      He looks like one of those little dogs, Yang thought, a Pekinese under a white tent.

      Thirty seconds, General. I think you will be pleased with the result.

      The men watched as the countdown reached zero. In the distance three columns of white smoke rose skyward, marking the underground shaft where the warhead would detonate. A deep rumble under the ground vibrated through the thick concrete beneath their feet. The earth erupted in a black, towering geyser rising hundreds of feet into the air. The blast expanded outward in a wide ring, a boiling cloud of churning sand and dust racing across the desert floor.

      Lu Cheng smiled.

      Deng glanced at the instruments recording every detail of the blast.

      Even better than we hoped. Eight point two megatons. Over fifty percent increase in output.

      Deng looked again at the readings.

      A bit dirty. We’ll hear from the IAEA about this.

      Let them wag their fingers and cluck like chickens, Lu said. There’s nothing they can do about it. How soon can we go into production?

      There is the question of resources, Deng said. If we had a high grade source of ore and more centrifuges we could produce fifty of these warheads a year, even a hundred. As it is, perhaps eight or ten.

      China’s entire strategic arsenal consisted of only three hundred missiles of varying capabilities, and none carried a payload bigger than five megatons. Lu’s smile widened at the thought of a hundred powerful new missiles each year.

      Yang spoke. Begin production immediately. You will formulate two plans, one based on our current resources and one based on having what is needed for high production. The hundred or so you mentioned.

      But we have no resources for so many, Deng protested.

      That is not your concern. Prepare the plan anyway. Or you may find yourself working on a different kind of project. Understood?

      Yang’s eyes were hooded and bulging under the red star on his green, high-peaked military hat. Deng looked at Yang’s, coarse, toad-like face. The General was not a man to be denied.

      This new nuclear demon was smaller, lighter, more destructive. The expression on the faces of Yang and Lu said they wanted more of these things, many more. There was only one reason for that. Only aggression required high numbers of missiles.

      Deng thought about his days of freedom as a student in America, before this insanity of nuclear weapons had trapped him. In China careers were dictated for men like him. Deng had rationalized his feelings about building weapons meant to kill millions by telling himself that China’s nuclear forces were defensive in nature.

      Looking at Yang and Lu, he had a chilling intimation of the future. Deng’s face gave nothing away of his thoughts, but he suspected more about Yang’s plans than the General imagined. Deng was not without his sources of information. It was necessary for personal survival in a position as sensitive as his.

      UNDERSTOOD?

      Yang shouted in his face, sending flecks of spittle onto Deng’s glasses. Deng was shocked. He kowtowed, twice, nervously.

      Yes, of course, General, two plans, as you suggest.

      Yang grunted. Keep me informed. He turned to Lu. I have to get back to Beijing. Ride with me.

      Lu nodded and the generals rudely turned their backs and walked outside without a further glance at Deng. He stared after them and felt a hot flush of shame. Everyone in the room was suddenly absorbed in their instruments and charts. No one was looking at him but they had all witnessed his humiliation. He had lost face.

      Yang acts like he thinks he can find resources to up production, Deng thought. Then what? More orders, more bombs, more threats. They have no respect. They have no honor. I might as well be dog shit under their boots.

      He marched into his private office and shut the door, his rage building. Enough was enough. He sat down at his computer, furious. He opened his email and sent a brief, innocuous, message to an address he’d never thought he would use.

      On the road leading away from the facility, Yang and Lu sat in the back seat of their vehicle. The salt flats of the old lake bed of Lop Nur slipped by in a blur, billows of brown dust trailing far behind the speeding car.

      Lu drummed his fingers on the armrest. We must have more warheads.

      We will, Yang said. Once I give the order, we will have the centrifuges in six months. All that remains is to locate the ore.

      You are sure the deposit exists?

      Reasonably sure, yes. The location is being sought as we speak. We’ll have it soon. Meanwhile our plans go forward.

      I worry about Chen. We need the railroads.

      Let me worry about Chen. So far, he has done all that we asked. Of course, he may not get what he wants afterwards.

      What does he want?

      To be President.

      Lu laughed. There was no mirth in the sound.

      President! He deludes himself, as usual. Lu paused, sneezed from the dust. What do you think about Deng?

      He bears watching, but I already have full surveillance on him. Meanwhile, he continues to produce. For such a small man he builds big bombs, and they are getting better.

      Yes. One day we may see how well they work.

      The West is weak, they have no political will. When we have control, they will be afraid to do anything. Just the threat will be sufficient. Then China will step into her rightful place.

      Lu nodded agreement. The two men sat lost in their thoughts as the car barreled along the gravel road, each in his own way contemplating a new China, dominant over the world.

      Chapter Eight

      ––––––––

      The security guard stared as Nick came through the door.

      You okay, Mister Carter?

      I'm fine, Bob. Just an accident.

      Nick walked ten flights up to his floor. He didn't like elevators much, not since Kabul. He went into his apartment and into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The bullet had taken away the left earlobe. It wouldn't do much for his looks when the bandage came off. A woman had told him once that he had rugged good looks. He got the rugged part, but he wasn't too sure about the rest. He didn't much care.

      He poured a whiskey, tossed his jacket on the couch and took off the shoulder rig. He needed to call Jordan. He thought about the FBI and the way the Bureau kept things close. He probably wasn't going to get much help there, but Jordan was a pretty good guy.

      Jordan.

      Zeke, it's Nick Carter.

      Nick. I saw you on the evening news. What happened out there?

      Jordan's voice was deep and vibrant. A big man, stone coal black, he was an anomaly for an agent, unafraid to speak his mind. Nick wondered how he'd lasted as long as he had in the rigid culture of the FBI. He'd made it all the way to the WFO in Washington in spite of everything.

      I was catching a ride with William Connor's niece. Two vehicles full of Chinese goons tried to grab her.

      You must have been a big surprise. There was a pause. What can I do for you?

      You're the liaison for the Bureau on Conner's murder. Did you turn up anything we haven't heard about yet?

      Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.

      You know it was Wu who set up Connor?

      Yes.

      We have a computer belonging to Connor. We hoped it would give us leads. All we got were business reports, financial info and a draft proposal for work in China.

      What kind of work in China?

      An archeological dig. Connor wanted to fund it and get permission to dig in return.

      Can you get that financial info to me?

      First thing tomorrow. I wanted to ask if you found anything in Connor's office.

      Not much. Just the kind of things you'd expect. Lots of financial records.

      Any keys? Safe deposit keys?

      We did find some keys.

      And?

      We got warrants to open the boxes, but there wasn't anything helpful. Some antique jewelry, diamonds, sapphires, gold coins, bearer bonds, that sort of thing. Just your average billionaire's little treasures.

      Do I detect a note of judgmental envy?

      Nah, everyone should have something set aside for a rainy day.

      Nick said, Zeke. If there's something going on we don't know about it might help if you guys came clean. About Wu.

      Silence. Then, Off the record?

      Yes.

      When Harker asked about Wu it dovetailed with an ongoing investigation. You know about the Chinese criminal underworld here in the States? The Triads? Also known as the Black Societies?

      I know the Mafia are newcomers compared to them.

      "Yeah. The Triad oaths make the Mafia Code of Silence look like a radio talk show. They're planning something and Wu is mixed up in it.

      Wu met with them at least three times. He's up to his eyeballs in the murder of Connor and you say Chinese thugs tried to grab his niece. Seems like more than a coincidence.

      We didn't know about the Triads. Carter paused. We might have a lead. I'm going to follow up on it.

      There's always a lead, sooner or later. Can you let me know what you find out?

      Subject to Harker's wishes, yes. Maybe off the record.

      Okay. Let's stay in touch. Nice talking with you.

      Likewise. Carter broke the connection.

      He went over the conversation in his mind. The Bureau had told Harker nothing when she requested their files on Wu. Now he knew there was a connection between the Triads and Colonel Wu, and by extension General Yang.

      If the book was at Connor's country place tomorrow, some questions might get answered. He hit the rack and fell asleep.

      He had the dream.

      They come in low and fast over the ridge, the relentless hard drumbeats of the rotors echoing from the valley walls.

      The village is a miserable, dust-blown cluster of low, flat-roofed buildings, baking in a bleak hollow of sharp, brown hills. A wide, dirt street runs down the middle. They drop from the chopper and hit the street running. On the right, low flat roofed houses. On the left, more houses and the market, a patchwork of ramshackle bins and hanging cloth walls. Clouds of flies swarm around things hanging in the open air of the butcher’s stall.

      He leads his team past the market. Close enough to the buildings to be able to duck into a doorway. Far enough away so a round fired won't burrow down a wall and right into him.

      He hears a baby cry. The street is deserted. Where is everyone?

      A dozen bearded figures rise up on the rooftops and begin firing AKs. The market stalls disintegrate around him in a firestorm of splinters and plaster and rock exploding from the sides of the buildings.

      He dives for cover. A child runs toward him, screaming about Allah. Nick watches and hesitates, a second too long. The boy cocks his arm back and throws a grenade as Nick shoots him. The M4 kicks back, one, two, three.

      The first round strikes the boy's chest, the second his throat, the third his face. The child's head balloons into a red fountain of blood and bone. The grenade drifts through the air in slow motion...everything goes white...

      He woke shouting, twisted in sweat-soaked sheets.

      He got up, made coffee, poured in a double Jameson's. When he had the dream there was no point in going back to bed.

      When he joined the Marines he'd been gung-ho. Naive. Ready to change the world. But all the nameless and meaningless landscapes of loss and death had changed him. The world stayed the same.

      That kid in Afghanistan couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve. Old enough to throw a ball, or a grenade, a pretty good distance. Young enough to believe the bullshit he'd been fed about what God wanted him to do and put himself right where Carter would have to kill him.

      The child and the grenade always waited in the back of his mind. Carter knew there wasn't anything else he could have done, but it didn't help. It was one more death in a chaotic war that couldn't be won, in a corrupt and brutal land.

      Working for Harker gave him a way to bring some kind of meaning to it. It was personal. A way to stop the kind of people who'd sent that child against him. People who thought it was a really good idea to put grenades in the hands of children. People who thought that whatever they wanted was the only right way for everyone. That killing anyone who didn't agree with them was righteous. People who thought God was pleased by that. Carter was damn sure God hadn't told that kid what to do.

      He waited for sunrise.

      Chapter Nine

      ––––––––

      Sunlight shone on streets wet with early morning rain. Water on the pavement mirrored a clear, bright sky of light blue with scattered white clouds. The heat wave had broken. The smog had blown away in the night. The city smelled fresh and clean.

      A black Ford Crown Vic with plain wheels and government plates pulled up where Carter waited outside his building. A man sat in the front passenger seat wearing a gaudy red Hawaiian shirt covered with white flowers. A loose, cream colored linen jacket bulged over his holstered Glock. He was wearing wraparound shades and a pork pie hat. He looked like he'd just stepped off the set of CSI Miami.

      Ronnie Peete was a full blooded Navajo, born on the Reservation. His skin was a light, reddish brown. He had broad shoulders and narrow hips and sleepy brown eyes that could spot a hawk or a sniper at a thousand yards. Ronnie had been a Gunnery Sergeant in Nick's Recon unit. Carter considered him the best combat Marine he'd ever known. He was also a friend.

      How's the ear? Ronnie asked through the open window.

      Itches like hell.

      Nick climbed in back. They pulled away. Ronnie looked back over the front seat.

      They had some great shots on the news last night. Bodies and wrecks on the highway, you covered with blood. How come you have all the fun?

      Lucky, I guess. Harker find anything out yet?

      Nope. No ID on any of them. The attackers were probably Chinese. Harker filled me in. Maybe it's about that book. It's too much of a coincidence.

      That's what I think.

      She asked me to ride along to the airport, just in case.

      They pulled up at the Mayflower. Selena waited outside with her bodyguard, dressed in jeans and Nikes, a light jacket over a gray silk blouse. She got in the back with Nick. She looked tired, stressed out.

      Morning, he said. Sleep well?

      Good morning. Not very. I kept thinking about yesterday.

      This is Ronnie. You'll see a lot of him.

      Morning.

      The driver picked his way through traffic. Selena was quiet, lost in thought. They got to the airport without incident.

      Ronnie left them at the counter. Carter looked at his ticket. Booked in First Class.

      How did we luck out with this? I usually end up next to the baggage.

      I called in and got us upgraded. I didn't see any point in getting squeezed into coach. It's a long flight.

      Maybe they'll have some real food for a change.

      I wouldn't count on it. I bring my own. The hotel made up a package for me. Do you like roast beef?

      Any horseradish with it?

      I haven't looked, but they seem to think of everything.

      Carter took Selena through private security. There was a discussion about his gun. A look at his ID with the Presidential seal on it and they let him keep it. They settled into the comfort of First Class.

      The attendant brought mimosas.

      Selena said, I was thinking about immortality. If you're immortal, what happens to your friends and lovers? Are they immortal? Do you think someone could stay married for, say, a thousand years?

      No one could stay married that long.

      Have you ever been married?

      His whole body went tense.

      No. I was engaged, once.

      He remembered.

      Megan was laughing, her fine, brown hair blowing in the wind coming off the Pacific. They'd gone up the coast to Trinidad for the weekend and found a Victorian bed and breakfast, on the cliffs looking out over the water.

      From the deck outside the room they'd watched the seals sunning themselves on the black rocks out in the ocean.

      They were getting ready to leave. Megan was beautiful, that day, her green eyes sparkling in the morning sun, excited about going to her new job down in San Diego. Nick had held her close.

      I love you, he'd said. I'll always love you.

      Nick. You've got to come back to me, come back safe.

      We'll get married when I get back. My tour is up in six months. I'll be a civilian and we can have a real life together.

      And a very, very fine house? She'd smiled and punched him lightly in the chest with both hands while he

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