Prologue
The photographer pressed her back against the hard stone of the building, doing her best to fade into the darkness. Several pairs of boots stomped along the cobblestones in pursuit. She held her breath, willing them to pass her by.
They didn’t.
As silently as possible, she released the safety on her handgun and let her training kick in. But just before they rounded the corner, a voice cried out in the distance.
“She went this way,” a male shouted in French.
A male who sounded an awful lot like her contact in the palace. As she released the breath she’d been holding, sirens began to wail in the distance. Stowing her gun back into her camera bag, she made her way down the hill to the marketplace. Still occupied by locals and tourists alike, the boisterous crowd was enjoying a warm Saturday night on the North African coast. The scent of saffron and chilies mingled with garlic floated through the air. With a skill born from years of practice, she mixed among the crowd as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
Once she had navigated a path to the center of the bazaar, she ducked into one of the stalls to quickly cover her head with a scarf she had tucked into her camera bag. She reversed her jacket for added assurance. Strolling through another stall, she stopped and bought a linen blanket, deliberately paying more than the asking price to ensure the seller’s silence. She tied the blanket around her waist before wandering deeper into the market, relieved her sandals had been bought locally the week before. It would be another hour at least before she could make the exchange. If she wanted to remain alive, it would suit her well to blend in.
The wailing sirens grew closer. So did the shouts of soldiers. She took refuge among a group of German tourists, flirting coyly with one who claimed to be a famous football player. His celebrity didn’t matter to her as much as his brawn did. The crowd grew restless at the arrival of the soldiers and police. The Germans carried her with them as they swarmed the exit.
Once they had cleared the market, she suggested they all go meet her husband. As expected, the football star and his friends scattered. They were so predictable she might have laughed. But she had something more important to carry out before the night was over.
Keeping to the shadows, she entered one of the few remaining churches in Tunisia. The sanctuary was dark with the exception of the many votive candles in front of the altar. She made her way up front and lit a candle. Then another. And another. Once the signal votives were lit, she slid into the fourth pew on the right side of the church. A stained-glass image of angels watched over her. She took that as a good sign. In her profession, guardian angels were always appreciated. No more than three minutes later, a nun joined her in the pew. She reached a gnarled hand across the wooden bench.
“Do you have it?” the nun asked quietly in French.
“Yes.”
She dropped the micro card into the nun’s outstretched palm. The older woman squeezed her fingers shut and smiled.
“The Mariner has been foiled again,” the nun said. “Well done.”
“So it would seem.”
“You know what to do from here. Your papers will be waiting for you at the dock. Enjoy your respite.”
The woman’s knees creaked as she made her way out of the pew.
Enjoy your respite.
Disappearing after an op used to feel like a vacation. A reward for completing a successful mission. But the longer she was in the game, the more the “respites” began to feel like banishment. Still, she had to admit, a few weeks of isolation beat being burned. Gathering up her camera bag, she made her way out of Africa and into the shadows where she vanished yet again.
Chapter One
Ben Segar swore in frustration as he tugged at the eighteen inches of silk wrapped tightly around his neck. He was a former army ranger and trained Secret Service agent with advanced degrees from MIT and Stanford, for crying out loud. His fingers could dismantle an IED, fire a kill-shot accurately from fifty meters, and bring a woman to ecstasy in two minutes flat. Yet tonight, they couldn’t seem to wrestle a damned bow tie into place.
“Hey, Boy Genius, allow me.” Secret Service Agent Christine Groesch tapped him on the shoulder indicating he should turn from the mirror and face her.
The Secret Service lounge, located directly below the Oval Office on the ground floor of the White House, was a frenzy of activity. Agents filled the room changing into either tuxedoes or their battle dress uniforms—or BDUs—depending on their assignment for the evening’s state dinner. The event was the finale to the World Economic Summit. With heads of state from twenty different countries attending—not all of whom were on solid diplomatic terms with the US—tensions were running high among the men and women charged with protecting the president of the United States and his family.
“It’s like tying your shoes,” Christine explained.
Of course, the pesky fabric slid easily through her fingers forming a perfect bow on her first attempt.
“How did you get to be such an expert at bow ties?” Ben asked.
A wistful look settled into Christine’s eyes before disappearing behind the professional mask she wore. “My sister has three kids under the age of ten. Which also means her patience isn’t what it used to be.” She smiled as she straightened Ben’s tie. “It fell to me to teach them all how to tie their shoes.”
Time spent with loved ones was fleeting for most agents within the president’s protective detail. Many families didn’t survive the strain. Ben had long ago resolved that a wife and kids were not conducive to a life in law enforcement. He knew firsthand what that type of career could do to a family and he never regretted giving up one for the other. Good friends, a steady diet of willing women to share his bed, and his role as the Mariner, the Secret Service’s top cyber asset, gave him all the satisfaction in life he needed.
It appeared Christine might be having regrets of her own, however. Not another one. There seemed to be an outbreak of conscious coupling among his friends lately. He shook his head in bewilderment.
“You’ve been in your ‘la-bore-atory’ too long, Segar,” Lou Caracas called from across the room where he was strapping his service revolver to the leg holster on his BDU. The agent was subbing as a member of the Secret Service’s Counter Assault Tactical (CAT) team tonight. “Since when do they invite the geek squad to a state dinner, anyway?”
“Since the Secretary of Homeland Security issued orders for Segar to be here,” a voice boomed behind them.
Agent Adam Lockett, commander of the CAT team stood in the doorway looking like the badass sharpshooter he was. A hush fell over the room with Adam’s announcement. Ben would have rather his buddy keep that little bit of intel to himself. The fewer people who knew of his clandestine work for the Secretary of Homeland, the better.
“Just remember to keep your pretty clothes and your tech toys out of the way so the real muscle can do its job tonight, Inspector Gadget,” Caracas said with a snicker before picking up his helmet and heading out the door.
“That guy is a hothead,” Christine murmured as she pinned the insignia designating her as a member of the Secret Service into the lapel of her sequined pantsuit. The pin was meant to distinguish her from the actual dinner guests—assuming the sensible shoes she wore wouldn’t give her away first. “I’m glad Adam will have him dodging raindrops up on the roof all night. I hope it pours.”