CHAPTER TWO

Reid Lawson moved quickly up the stairs of his home in Alexandria, Virginia. His movements seemed wooden, his legs still feeling numb from the shock he’d experienced only minutes earlier, but his stare was set in an expression of grim determination. He took the steps two at a time to the second floor, though he dreaded what would be up there—or, more appropriately, what wouldn’t.

Downstairs and outside was a flurry of activity. In the street in front of his house were no fewer than four police cars, two ambulances, and a fire truck, all protocol for a situation like this one. Uniformed cops stretched caution tape in an X over his front door. Forensics collected samples of Thompson’s blood from the foyer and hair follicles from his girls’ pillows.

Reid could barely remember even calling the authorities. He barely recalled giving the police a statement, a stammering patchwork of fragmented sentences punctuated by short, gasping breaths while his mind swam with horrifying possibilities.

He had gone away for the weekend with a friend. A neighbor was watching his girls.

The neighbor was now dead. His girls were gone.

Reid made a call as he reached the top of the stairs and away from prying ears.

“You should have called us first,” Cartwright said as greeting. Deputy Director Shawn Cartwright was head of the Special Activities Division and, unofficially, Reid’s boss at the CIA.

They’ve already heard. “How did you know?”

“You’re flagged,” Cartwright said. “We all are. Anytime our info comes up in a system—name, address, social, anything—it’s automatically sent to the NSA with priority. Hell, you get a speeding ticket the agency will know before the cop lets you drive away.”

“I have to find them.” Every second that ticked by was a thunderous chorus reminding him that he might never see his daughters again if he didn’t leave now, this instant. “I saw Thompson’s body. He’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours, which is a significant lead on us. I need equipment, and I need to go now.”

Two years earlier, when his wife, Kate, had died suddenly of an ischemic stroke, he’d felt completely numb. A dazed, detached feeling had overtaken him. Nothing felt real, as if any moment he would wake from the nightmare to find it had all been in his head.

He hadn’t been there for her. He had been at a conference on ancient European history—no, that wasn’t the truth. That was his cover story while he was on a CIA op in Bangladesh, pursuing a lead on a terrorist faction.

He wasn’t there for Kate back then. He wasn’t there for his girls when they were taken.

But he was sure as hell going to be there for them now.

“We’re going to help you, Zero,” Cartwright assured him. “You’re one of us, and we take care of our own. We’re sending techs to your house to assist the police in their investigation, posing as Homeland Security personnel. Our forensics are faster; we should have a bead on who did this within the—”

“I know who did this,” Reid interrupted. “It was him.” There was no doubt in Reid’s mind who was responsible for this, who had come and taken his girls. “Rais.” Just saying the name aloud renewed Reid’s rage, starting in his chest and radiating through every limb. He clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. “The Amun assassin that escaped from Switzerland. This was him.”

Cartwright sighed. “Zero, until there’s evidence, we don’t know that for sure.”

“I do. I know it. He sent me a picture of them.” He had received a photo, sent to Sara’s phone from Maya’s. The picture was of his daughters, still in their pajamas, huddled together in the back of Thompson’s stolen truck.

“Kent,” the deputy director said carefully, “you’ve made a lot of enemies. This doesn’t confirm—”

“It was him. I know it was him. That photo is proof of life. He’s taunting me. Anyone else might have just…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud, but any of the other myriad foes Kent Steele had amassed over his career might have just killed his girls as revenge. Rais was doing this because he was a fanatic who believed he was destined to kill Kent Steele. That meant that eventually the assassin would want Reid to find him—and hopefully, the girls as well.

Whether or not they’re alive when I do, though… He gripped his forehead with both hands as if he could somehow pry the thought from his head. Stay clear-headed. You can’t think like that.

“Zero?” Cartwright said. “You still with me?”

Reid took a calming breath. “I’m here. Listen, we need to track Thompson’s truck. It’s a newer model; it has a GPS unit. He also has Maya’s phone. I’m sure the agency has the number on file.” Both the truck and the phone could be tracked; if the locations synced and Rais hadn’t ditched either of them yet, it would give them a solid direction to pursue.

“Kent, listen…” Cartwright tried to say, but Reid immediately cut him off.

“We know there are members of Amun in the United States,” he rattled on, unabated. Two terrorists had gone after his girls once before on a New Jersey boardwalk. “So it’s possible there’s an Amun safe house somewhere within US borders. We should contact H-6 and see if we can get any info out of the detainees.” H-6 was a CIA black site in Morocco, where detained members of the terrorist organization were currently being held.

“Zero—” Cartwright tried again to break into the one-sided conversation.

“I’m packing a bag and heading out the door in two minutes,” Reid told him as he hurried into his bedroom. Every moment that passed was another moment that his girls were farther away from him. “The TSA should be on alert, in case he tries to take them out of the country. Same with ports and train stations. And highway cameras—we can access those. As soon as we have a lead, have someone meet me. I’ll need a car, something fast. And an agency phone, a GPS tracker, guns—”

“Kent!” Cartwright barked into the phone. “Just stop a second, all right?”

“Stop? These are my little girls, Cartwright. I need information. I need help…”

The deputy director sighed heavily, and Reid immediately knew something was very wrong. “You’re not going on this op, Agent,” Cartwright told him. “You’re too close.”

Reid’s chest heaved, his anger swelling again. “What are you talking about?” he asked quietly. “Just what the hell are you talking about? I’m going after my girls—”

“You’re not.”

“These are my children…”

“Listen to yourself,” Cartwright said sharply. “You’re ranting. You’re emotional. This is a conflict of interest. We can’t allow it.”

“You know I’m the best person for this,” Reid said forcefully. No one else would be going for his children. It would be him. It had to be him.

“I’m sorry. But you have a habit of attracting the wrong kind of attention,” Cartwright said, as if that was an explanation. “The higher-ups, they are trying to avoid a… repeat performance, if you will.”

Reid balked. He knew precisely what Cartwright was talking about, though he didn’t actually remember it. Two years ago his wife, Kate, died, and Kent Steele buried his grief in his work. He went on a weeks-long spree, cutting off communication with his team as he pursued members of Amun and leads across Europe. He refused to come in when the CIA called him back. He didn’t listen to anyone—not Maria Johansson, not his best friend, Alan Reidigger. From what Reid gathered, he left a slew of bodies in his wake that most described as nothing short of a rampage. In fact, it was the primary reason that the name “Agent Zero” was whispered in equal parts terror and disdain amongst insurgents the world over.

And when the CIA had had enough, they sent someone to take him out. They sent Reidigger after him. But Alan didn’t kill Kent Steele; he had found another way, the experimental memory suppressor that would allow him to forget all about his life in the CIA.

“I get it. You’re afraid of what I might do.”

“Yeah,” Cartwright agreed. “You’re damn right we are.”

“You should be.”

“Zero,” the deputy director warned, “don’t. You let us do this our way, so it can get done quickly, quietly, and cleanly. I’m not going to tell you again.”

Reid ended the call. He was going after his girls, with or without the CIA’s help.

CHAPTER THREE

After hanging up on the deputy director, Reid stood outside the door to Sara’s bedroom with his hand on the knob. He did not want to go in there. But he needed to.

Instead he distracted himself with the details that he knew, running through them in his mind: Rais had entered the house through an unlocked door. There were no signs of forced entry, no windows or door locks broken. Thompson had tried to fight him off; there was evidence of a struggle. Ultimately the old man had succumbed to knife wounds to the chest. No shots had been fired, but the Glock that Reid kept by the front door was gone. So was the Smith & Wesson that Thompson perpetually kept at his waist, which meant that Rais was armed.

But where would he take them? None of the evidence at the crime scene that was his home led to a destination.

In Sara’s room, the window was still open and the fire escape ladder still unfurled from the sill. It seemed that his daughters had attempted, or at least thought, to try to climb down it. But they hadn’t made it.

Reid closed his eyes and breathed into his hands, willing away the threat of new tears, of new terrors. Instead he retrieved her cell phone charger, still plugged into the wall beside her nightstand.

He had found her phone on the basement floor, but hadn’t told the police about it. Nor did he show them the photo that had been sent to it—sent with the intent that he would see it. He couldn’t hand the phone over, despite it clearly being evidence.

He might need it.

In his own bedroom, Reid plugged Sara’s cell phone into the wall outlet behind his bed. He put the device on silent, and then turned on call and message forwarding to his number. Lastly he hid her phone between the mattress and box spring. He didn’t want it taken by the cops. He needed it to stay active, in case more taunts came. Taunts could become leads.

He quickly stuffed a bag with a couple changes of clothes. He did not know how long he would be gone, how far he would have to go. To the ends of the earth, if necessary.

He switched out his sneakers for boots. He left his wallet in his top dresser drawer. In his closet, stuffed deep in the toe of a pair of black dress shoes, was a wad of emergency cash, nearly five hundred dollars. He took it all.

Atop his dresser was a framed photo of the girls. His chest grew tight just looking at it.

Maya had her arm around Sara’s shoulders. Both girls were smiling wide, seated across from him at a seafood restaurant as he took their picture. It was from a family trip to Florida the previous summer. He remembered it well; he had snapped the photo mere moments before their food arrived. Maya had a virgin daiquiri in front of her. Sara had a vanilla milkshake.

They were happy. Smiling. Content. Safe. Before he had brought any of this terror down upon them, they were safe. At the time this photo was taken, the very notion of ever being pursued by radicals intent to harm them, kidnapped by murderers, was the stuff of fantasy.

This is your fault.

He flipped the frame over and tore open the back. As he did, he made himself a promise. When he found them—and I will find them—he would be done. Done with the CIA. Done with covert operations. Done with saving the world.

To hell with the world. I just want my family to be safe and kept safe.

They would leave, move far away, change their names if they needed to. All that would matter for the rest of his life would be their safety, their happiness. Their survival.

He took the photo from the frame, folded it in half, and tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

He would need a gun. He could probably find one in Thompson’s house, just next door, if he could manage to slip in without the police or emergency personnel seeing—

Someone cleared their throat loudly in the hall, an obvious warning sign meant for him in case he needed a moment to compose himself.

“Mr. Lawson.” The man stepped into the bedroom doorway. He was short, soft in the middle, but had hard lines etched in his face. He reminded Reid a little of Thompson, though that could have just been guilt. “My name is Detective Noles, with the Alexandria Police Department. I understand this is a very difficult time for you. I know you’ve already given a statement to the first-responding officers, but I have some follow-up questions for you that I’d like to be on the record, if you would please come with me down to the precinct.”

“No.” Reid took up his bag. “I’m going to find my girls.” He marched out of the room and past the detective.

Noles followed quickly. “Mr. Lawson, we strongly discourage citizens from taking any action in a case like this. Let us do our jobs. The best thing for you to do would be to stay somewhere safe, with friends or family, but close by…”

Reid paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Am I a suspect in the kidnapping of my own daughters, Detective?” he asked, his voice low and hostile.

Noles stared. His nostrils flared briefly. Reid knew his training dictated that this sort of situation be handled delicately, as not to further traumatize victims’ families.

But Reid was not traumatized. He was angry.

“As I said, I just have a few follow-up questions,” Noles said carefully. “I’d like you to come with me, down to the precinct.”

“I reject your questions.” Reid stared back. “I’m going to get in my car now. The only way you’re taking me anywhere is in handcuffs.” He very much wanted this stout detective out of his face. For a brief moment he even considered mentioning his CIA credentials, but he had nothing on him to back it up.

Noles said nothing as Reid turned on his heel and strode out of the house to the driveway.

Still the detective followed, out the door and across the lawn. “Mr. Lawson, I’m only going to ask you once more. Consider for a second how this looks, you packing a bag and running off while we’re actively investigating your home.”

A white-hot jolt of anger ran through Reid, from the base of his spine up to the top of his head. He very nearly dropped his bag right there, so much was his desire to turn and deck Detective Noles across the jaw for even remotely implying that he might have had a hand in this.

Noles was a veteran; he must have been able to read the body language, but still he pressed on. “Your girls are missing and your neighbor is dead. All this happened while you weren’t home, yet you don’t have a solid alibi. You can’t tell us who you were with or where you were. Now you’re running off like you know something we don’t. I have questions, Mr. Lawson. And I will get answers.”

My alibi. Reid’s actual alibi, the truth, was that he had spent the last forty-eight hours running down a crazed religious leader who was in possession of an apocalypse-sized batch of mutated smallpox. His alibi was that he just got home from saving millions of lives, perhaps even billions, only to find that the two people he cared most about in this entire world were nowhere to be found.

But he couldn’t say any of that, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, Reid forced his rage down and held back both his fist and his tongue. He paused alongside his car and turned to face the detective. As he did, the shorter man’s hand moved slowly to his belt—and his handcuffs.

Two uniformed officers milling about outside noticed the potential altercation and took a few cautious steps closer to him, hands also moving to their belts.

Ever since the memory suppressor had been cut from his head, it felt like Reid was of two minds. One side, the logical, Professor Lawson side, was telling him: Back down. Do as he asks. Or else you’ll find yourself in jail and you’ll never get to the girls.

But the other side, the Kent Steele side of him—the secret agent, the renegade, the thrill-seeker—it was much louder, shouting, knowing from experience that every second counted desperately.

That side won out. Reid tensed, ready for a fight.