Chapter 1

November, present day

An early frost glittered on the naked limbs of the chestnut trees lining the quiet side street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of Washington, D.C.'s, embassy district. Commuters pouring out of the Metro stop at the corner kept their heads down against the biting wind as they hurried to work.

If any had happened to glance at the elegant three-story town house halfway down the block, they might have noticed the discreet bronze plaque beside the door. The plaque indicated the structure housed the offices of the President's Special Envoy.

The title was held by Nick Jensen, a jet-setting restaurateur who owned a string of exclusive watering holes that catered to the rich and famous around the world. Only a handful of Washington insiders knew that title masked Jensen's real job—director of OMEGA. The small, ultrasecret organization sent its operatives into the field only at the request of the president himself.

One of those agents had just been activated.

Andrew McDowell—code name Riever—sat at the briefing table in the high-tech control center on the top floor of the town house. Shielded from penetration by every electronic eavesdropping device known to man, the control center hummed with the pulse of OMEGA's heartbeat.

Frowning, Drew skimmed the data projected onto the screen taking up almost the whole north wall. There wasn't much to skim. Just a list of Internet queries seeking information on the USS Kallister. Several of the queries cited a sailing date of 15 November and requested information on the ship's course and cargo. The problem was, that course was classified. So was the cargo in the hold of the refurbished WWII-era ship.

The rust bucket that had hauled explosives across the Pacific during the war had been torpedoed and almost sunk. Mothballed after the war, it had been refitted and recommissioned in the late '60s to meet the escalating demands of the Vietnam conflict. Now it carried a secret cargo—so secret, every circuit at the White House situation room had popped when the vigilant watchdogs at NSA plucked this string of queries out of the billions their computers screened every day.

"What do you think, Riever?"

Drew had derived his code name from the fierce raiders who wreaked such havoc on the Anglo-Scottish border in past centuries. Like his long-ago ancestors, he was hawk-eyed and broad-shouldered enough to swing a claymore. He felt the urge to swing one now.

He'd served a hitch in the navy before being recruited by OMEGA. That was almost eight years ago, but there was enough of the sailor left in him to generate a cold, deadly fury at the possibility someone might deliberately put a U.S. vessel at risk.

"I think," he said to his boss, "I'd better haul my ass out to the west coast and check out the female who generated these queries. What have we got on her so far?"

"Not much," Nick Jensen replied. Tall, tanned and tawny-haired, the one-time agent with the code name Lightning nodded to the console operator. A click of a mouse brought up the digitized image of a Washington state driver's license.

According to the DMV, Tracy Brandt was twenty-eight years old, stood five-six and weighed a respectable one hundred and thirty-two pounds. No anorexic toothpick there.

The camera must have caught Brandt by surprise. Her picture showed a brunette with startled green eyes and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"Ms. Brandt worked as a budget analyst at the Puget Sound shipyards until two weeks ago," Lightning advised Drew. "Her supervisor says he fired her because of repeated absences from work. He also says she told him he'd be sorry for letting her go."

Uh-oh. A defensive employee fired for cause. Talk about your basic formula for disaster.

"What about her security clearances?"

"She crunched payroll numbers. Nothing that required a top-secret clearance. Certainly nothing that would give her access to the cargo packed in the hold of the Kallister."

Lightning drummed his fingers on the table. He knew what the Kallister was hauling. He was one of a very small, very select circle who did.

"Brandt's address checks to an apartment complex in Puget Sound, but the electronic queries emanated from Southern California. An Internet café on Catalina Island, to be specific."

"What's she doing there?"

"That's what you're going to find out. She used her Visa to check into the Bella Vista Inn. We got the manager to move out the folks in the room next to hers. He's holding it for you."

A thin smile stretched Drew's lips. With the array of electronic gadgetry available to OMEGA agents, Ms. Brandt had better watch what she said or did, even in the privacy of her bedroom.

"We're sending a team to Puget Sound to talk to her former coworkers," Lightning advised. "We'll let you know what, if anything, they turn up."

"Roger that."

Lightning's nod encompassed the blonde on the other side of the table. "Denise will act as your controller here at headquarters."

A former Secret Service agent, Denise Kowalski had pumped a bullet into the man she believed was attacking the vice president. The veep had actually been another OMEGA agent in disguise, but Denise's cool head had so impressed everyone involved that the director at the time had requested she be transferred to OMEGA. Drew couldn't think of anyone he'd rather have as his controller.

"Let us know when you make contact with the target," Lightning instructed. "I need to advise the president."

"Will do."

Shoving back his chair, Drew took the stairs to the field dress unit. The wizards in FDU fitted him with an array of sophisticated communications devices and a .45-caliber Glock they'd regripped especially for his hand. After a final session with Denise to work out a reporting schedule, he departed the town house via a hidden back exit. A half hour later he was on his way to sun-drenched Southern California.

Copyright © 2006 by Merline Lovelace.