Chapter 1

Washington D.C.

“Gray,” he whispered to himself, fear and concern permeating his voice.
Several dazed moments passed before his mind cleared and he knew what he had to do.  Moving quickly towards the elevator Raven selected an icon from the contacts on his phone.  He glanced up and down the hall to make sure he was alone then dialed the number.  The line was still ringing when he reached the elevator and pressed the button for the upper floors.  The same moment the elevator car arrived a man answered and said, “Hold for security check.”  The elevator door opened to an empty car.  Raven stepped inside and pressed the button for the thirteenth floor.
The man came back on the line and asked, “Are there eyes and ears where you are?”
Raven glanced around the elevator then replied, “No audio, just video.”
“I’ll hold,” the man said.
Raven felt a hint of irritation, which he knew was a byproduct of his concern and impatience.  “What the hell happened?” he wondered.  Cops?  Feds?  Had the Denver interrogation gone sideways?  Action movie images of a wounded sniper fighting his way to freedom whirled through his mind, but he quickly dismissed the idea.  Such things only happen in the movies.  A gunshot would to the leg, especially one from a high-powered sniper rifle, would preclude simple walking, let alone an effective assault on half a dozen men.

After an unbearably slow ascent, the elevator arrived at the thirteenth floor.  Raven darted through the opening doors and took a sharp right.  Carrying the phone at his side he moved swiftly towards his office – all the while trying not to appear as though he was hurring.  Extracting a badge from his coat pocket he held it up to the scanner and waited.  A soft, androgynous computer voice said, “Thank you Director,” and the opaque glass doors silently slid apart.  He stepped through the entry and he was relieved to see his assistant was not as his desk.  Moving quickly, Raven opened the heavy wooden door, entered his office, and shut the door behind him.
Pressing the cell to his ear he said, “I’m in my office.  No eyes or ears.  Swept this morning.  Now what is going on?”
The line was silent. 
“Dammit Osiro,” Raven barked impatiently, “what in the hell happened?’
“Gray,” was all Osiro could manage.  Raven heard confusion and shakiness in a voice that rarely betrayed emotion.  “No,” he thought as he lowered himself into his chair, “it wasn’t confusion.  It was fear.”
“Osiro,” Raven said trying to keep his voice calm and even, “tell me what you know.”
There was a long pause.  Raven took a deep breath and waited.
“Gray,” Osiro repeated.  “He’s gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Raven pressed.

Gone!” Osiro said again.  “Off the grid.  He and Talon were in Denver to…talk to the shooter.  With Breckus and the guys who picked him up.  They called just before arriving at the meeting place.  Then he vanished.”
“What about Breckus and Talon?  Do we know where they are?” Raven asked.
“Talon phoned in.  He’s okay.  They were hungry so Talon went for food.  Delivery would’ve been a bad idea,” Osiro said forcing an uneasy laugh.  “When he returned, the place was empty.  Everyone was gone.  Gray, Breckus…everyone.”
Recalling the text message Raven asked, “You have no idea who took them?”
“No,” Osiro said in a bewildered voice.  “There were signs of forced entry.  Whoever was there wasn’t thoughtful enough to leave a note or a calling card.  I’ve checked with local PD and hospitals, tapped every local camera I could find, even called the hotel they were planning on staying at.  Nothing.”
“What about Talon?  What is his theory?”
Raven thought he could hear Osiro shaking his head.  “He doesn’t have one.  There were traces of powder on the floors and a strange odor in the air, but otherwise the place is clean.  As clean as could be expected for a machine shop.”
“What about tracing their phones?” Raven suggested.
“Don’t you think I’ve already tried that!” Osiro blurts.  “No.  Their phones are off.  I can’t triangulate a location until one of the phones is powered up.  I tried tracking Breckus’s notepad, but that appears to be off as well.  They weren’t carrying anything else I can track.”
“Shit,” was all Raven could say.
“Did your people get them?” Osiro asked, a hint of accusation in his voice.
“I can’t say for sure, but I doubt it.  We have a big field office in Denver, but if something were in the pipeline – if someone there was tracking Gray and Talon – I would’ve known.  No, as far as I know no one here is working this case.  I’ve had my assistant keeping a close eye on internal bulletins and case files related to this case.  So far, we’ve kept clear of it.”
“Well someone decided to make a move.  And they did it quietly and right under our noses.”
“Damn it.  Where are they Osiro?” Raven pleaded.
“I don’t know Raven,” Osiro said heavily.  “I don’t know.”

Denver, Colorado

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

“Cowper was right,” Gray thought.  “Maddeningly right.”  Whatever virtuous and instinctive faculties remained in his own gut would probably never speak to him again.  “What,” such advisors might ardently demand, “is the use of possessing a perspicacious and reliable voice of instinct if you elect deafness when said contrivance delivers its loudest warning?”  No question in his life had ever been more relevant as it pertained to his situation.  His current situation.

It had all happened so fast.  A split second before the shouting and smoke materialized out of thin air, the same tingling sensation he’d felt outside the building returned with a vengeance.  Was it a premonition?  Astral projection?  Or did he simply know, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the tingling in the parking lot had been trying to say “Something isn’t right here.  Run, you idiot.  Run!”  It was a simple suggestion, and easy enough to follow.  Drive away, call Neil, tell him to sit on the sniper for a few hours until Osiro could run some checks on the location.  Caution 101 right?

If that message had been clear and he’d have listened, it was unlikely he would now be handcuffed to a cushy, high-backed chair, with a musky burlap bag over his head.  The anger at his blatant idiocy flared up again.  He pulled hard on his bindings, causing the cold, metal cuffs to dig into his wrists.  The pain was strangely reassuring, as if to remind him he wasn’t dead.  Yet.

“Even if you should manage to break the chain I’ll be forced to have a large man with a heavy club crack you over the head.”  The voice was familiar.  A thousand thoughts all bundled tightly by sheer disbelief rode the echo of the man’s calm, confident warning.  Gray relaxed his arms.  Something told him he was going to need his strength.

I’ve never been told mine was a memorable voice, but judging from the change in your posture I think it’s fair to say I made an impression on you.  Be that as it may, human communication is so lackluster without the benefit of eye contact and expression.  Thomas would you please restore Mr. Gray’s vision.”

Gray heard heavy footsteps behind him – presumably the footfalls of the aforementioned behemoth with the bludgeoning instrument.  The next moment the darkness afforded by the shroud gave way to bright, but warm light as the bag was yanked from his head.  Gray squinted while his eyes adjusted.  As the world again came into focus he saw he was in a rectangular room, perhaps thirty feet by twenty.  The walls were covered floor to ceiling with beige and gold-striped wallpaper.  He was seated at the end of a long, polished antique wooden table.  The area before him was empty save for a lace napkin and a crystal wine glass.  To the left of the long table sat an ornately carved wooden credenza, with a white marble top and an arrangement of crystal carafes filled with what looked Scotch or bourbon, red wine, and two containing clear liquids.  Next to the carafes sat an engraved silver water pitcher, two silver trays piled high with fruit, and a large bouquet of flowers in the center.  The room shouted of gaudy opulence.

Gray shifted his gaze in the direction of the familiar voice.  Seated at the other end of the long table was Homeland Security Agent Roger Tarte.  The agent’s face bore a look of mild amusement and rapt attention.  Gray could see the agent’s posture was tense, though he was trying desperately to appear calm and relaxed.

The two men stared at each other for several moments before Tarte broke the silence.  “I know what you’re thinking.  Don’t worry, the large walking Sequoia with the curly black hair is alive, though the headache he’ll likely have upon awakening isn’t something I’d envy.  The bound and battered curiosity you both appeared to be interrogating when we arrived is also alive and unharmed – at least by us.  They’re in my charge – for the time being.”

“Finally some good news,” Gray thought.  Breckus and the sniper were here.  Tarte made no mention of Neil and his men.  Gray had asked them to step outside while he spoke to the Russian.  They must’ve seen the attack coming and fled.  He’d hated asking Neil to get involved in the first place, but he’d had little choice at the time.  They were good men, but were not trained for any kind of fighting.  They weren’t even armed.  With any luck they’d gotten away.  If Neil and his men had been captured or harmed Gray would’ve never forgiven himself.
“What’s the matter Gray?” Tarte asked smugly, gesturing to the room.  “Do the accommodations not suit you?”

Gray looked around again, then said to no one in particular, “Modern psychology would suggest any unnecessary projection of confidence and superiority by a male – the human equivalent of feather-puffing and chest pounding – is indicative of deep-seated insecurities and, ironically enough, a deficit of both confidence and superiority.  A deficiency which, if left untreated, usually leaves the subject unfulfilled, paranoid and,” Gray turned to look directly at Agent Tarte and added, “generally a pain in everyone’s ass.”  Looking around again Gray admitted, “Of course that’s just an opinion”.

Tarte studied his prison a moment then suggested, “I commend you for keeping your insult so general, Mr. Gray.  A lesser man would’ve gone straight for sexual abuse, neglectful parents, or an overactive oedipal complex.  So very proper of you to keep things friendly.  Cooperation is certainly preferable to coercion…or worse.”

“Yes, yes I get it.  You’re big, strong men with guns and the means necessary to force the simpleton like me to confess to the Kennedy assassination.  I’m quivering here, but also a bit bored and irritated.  Would you mind if we get started?  I’m just dying to see my new six-by-eight concrete condo.”

“Sarcasm, the hallmark of American male communication.”  Tarte seemed to consider his next words then, nodding with a knowing grin said, “But of course you’re right.  I’ve no need to try to scare or impress you Mr. Gray.  However, before we get down to brass tacks, I would like to ask you to indulge me for just a moment.”  Tarte nodded to someone behind Gray.  A moment later a man dressed head to toe in a close-fitting black suit poured a red liquid into Gray’s wine glass.  The man walked quietly to the other end of the table and filled Tarte’s glass.  He set down the crystal carafe on the table, removed a small set of keys from his jacket pocket and waited.

“This is Agent Thomas Kepler,” Tarte said keeping his eyes on Gray.  “The large gentleman I mentioned earlier.  He has the keys to your hand cuffs.  With your permission I’d like to have him remove them.  I’ll trust to your civility and cooperation.”

Gray studied Agent Kepler, noting his substantial size as well as the two bulges beneath his jacket.  “A two-fisted shooter,” Gray silently noted.  Smart.  He too had required each his Augurs achieve proficiency shooting with both hands.  It was an awkward and difficult skill to master, but anyone who’d ever been in a gunfight knew it could mean the difference between winning and dying.

Gray cast a second glance at Agent Kepler then returned his attention to Agent Tarte and nodded his consent.  Tarte gestured towards Gray.  “Agent Kepler, if you would please.”

Agent Kepler returned to Gray’s end of the table, removed the handcuffs, and set them on the table behind the wine glass with an audible clunk.  Gray got the message loud and clear: get out of line and the shiny bracelets go back on.  Gray rubbed the red rings on his wrist and stared coldly at Agent Tarte.

As if on cue Tarte said, “Mr. Gray…or is it just Gray?”  Receiving only silence as an answer Tarte continued.  “You and I have a great deal to talk about.  I promise to enlighten you as to your situation as well as that of your comrades, but first I ask that you join me.  Please,” Tarte said, motioning to the wine glass.  Tarte lifted his own glass and took a drink.  The agent held up his glass and assured, “I promise, it isn’t poisoned or laced with anything.”

Gray sat motionless.

“Please,” Tarte said again, “I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to bring you here in one piece and to keep news of your capture away from the media, the local police and even my superiors.  I also had to prevent Agent Kepler from turning you into silly putty.  The least you can do is oblige such a simple request.  Please.”  Tarte again gestured towards the wine glass.

Gray again took in his surroundings.  Definitely not a prison cell, or a hot room at the local police department or the mess hall at Guantanamo Bay.  The furnishings suggested an expensive restaurant or men’s club.  He had to admit he was curious as to why Tarte would risk bringing him here.  It must have taken some doing to bring a hooded, handcuffed man into such an establishment without causing a stir.  But why?  There was only one way to find out.  Without breaking eye contact, Gray reached for the glass.

“It’s had ample time to breathe,” Tarte assured him.

Gray fought the urge to inhale the wine’s bouquet.  He put the glass to his lips and took a drink.  The wonderful flavor filled his parched mouth – the invisible aroma escaping his lips and filling his nostrils.  Reflexively his eyes closed and his mind began analyzing the smooth liquid as it flowed over his taste buds. The trance was brief as alarms sounded in his mind.  Realizing his mistake he immediately opened his eyes and forced the pleasure and recognition from his face, but it was too late.  Tarte had seen it, and more mysteriously, he seemed to know what it meant.  The DHS agent smiled broadly.

Gray held the glass an extra second, tempted by another drink.  Instead he carefully returned the glass to the table.  He stared at the velvet liquid for half a second then lift his head and met Tarte’s curious expression.  It felt like he’d somehow tipped his hand, but since it wasn’t obvious how, he decided it was best to keep quiet.  He was completely unprepared for what came next.

…