At half-past midnight, newly licensed attorney Jake Wolfe lay in bed staring at the ceiling and
waiting for orders.
Orders to kill.
He lay on top of the covers, fully dressed except for his boots, ready to go at a moment’s notice.
Beneath him, he felt his sixtyfoot power yacht, the Far Niente, rock gently on the water, where it
was berthed at his boat slip.
In the stillness, he listened as small waves lapped at the hull.
The boat creaked in a familiar way, the rigging from a nearby sailboat flapped in the breeze, and
a passing seagull called to another. He knew every sound of the boat, as if she was an old
friend with her own personality.
Closing his eyes, he wondered how it was possible that he’d become an assassin. After serving
four years in the Marines and later doing secret black ops missions for the CIA’s Special
Activities Division, he’d received an honorable discharge at his end of active service. He’d come
home and studied law online, had passed the bar exam, and had started a solo law practice.
The fighting should all be behind him now, but Uncle Sam had come calling again, in need of a
patriot to help protect the homeland.
His girlfriend, Sarah Chance, should be in bed with him. But she’d accidentally witnessed Jake
assassinate three terrorists, and now she was afraid to spend the night.
Jake cursed and thought about the liquor cabinet in the galley. A few drinks of Redbreast Irish
whiskey could help him forget about life and get some sleep. It was only natural if you had Irish
blood in your veins.
No, not tonight. He shook his head and pushed that temptation out of his mind. He had to stay
alert.
A light rain began to patter quietly against the boat. The buzzing of his encrypted black phone
on the nightstand interrupted his thoughts.
Jake noticed his adopted war dog, Cody, wake up from where he’d been sleeping on the bed.
The dog looked at him with wise brown eyes, quirking one eyebrow. Jake smiled at his faithful
friend. Cody was a Golden Lab—a yellow Labrador retriever and Golden Retriever mix—with
short, wavy hair.
“At ease, Marine,” Jake said, and scratched Cody behind his ears.
Sitting up, Jake grabbed the phone. It was a call from Shannon McKay. He thumbed the answer
icon. “Wolfe.”
“We have a situation,” McKay said. “The one I warned you about.”
She spoke in a commanding voice, always serious and professional. In their working
relationship she was the starched shirt and he was the loose cannon.
Jake saw her image on an encrypted program similar to Skype or FaceTime. She was wearing
a charcoal-gray suit jacket over a white blouse, the telltale bulge of a pistol in a shoulder holster
under her left arm. Staring directly at the camera with a nononsense gaze, she projected the
image of a powerful, capable, and dangerous person—someone who could give an order and
you’d be dead, or soon wish you were.
Jake made light of the deadly situation with a dark humor they both shared. “I’ve got pants on
and I’m about to drink some strong coffee.”
“So far, so good, but no whiskey in the coffee; I need you alert.”
Jake smiled ruefully. She knew him too well. They shared a complicated history, but they’d
earned each other’s trust and respect, although they still traded barbs and challenges.
“The mission?” Jake asked as he walked to the galley with Cody following. He knew missions
were often kept secret until the last minute, to protect operations security.
“A high value target I’ve been tracking. He’s a foreign banking executive who secretly helps
terrorists launder their opium money and buy assault rifles and rocket launchers from arms
dealers. Those weapons are fired at our troops, and some of them are smuggled into the U.S.
and sold to criminal gangs.”
Opening the sliding door, Jake let Cody out onto the aft deck to do his business on a section of
artificial grass. “Is this related to the drug gang I fought with recently?”
“Correct. You shut them down, but this guy was their money man.”
“Still conducting business as usual?”
“Yes. Recently, in Los Angeles, a gang of criminals robbed a bank while wearing body armor
and carrying AKs sold through his pipeline. They injured several LEOs and one police officer
died who had recently returned to duty after her maternity leave.”
Jake cursed and thought about when he’d served overseas as a military dog handler. Some of
his best friends had been killed by AK-47s. And his good friend Stuart, Cody’s former handler,
made it home alive but had died of a heroin overdose. The deaths of his friends had cut deep
wounds in his soul. “This dirtbag gets rich by arming terrorists and cop killers?”
McKay pursed her lips. “He also helped fund the overseas terrorist cell that was beheading
women who refused to be sex slaves.”
“The men I terminated.”
“The very same.”
“Was he aware of the beheadings?”
“He knew exactly who he was aiding and abetting. Now, he’s funding a shipment of Stingers
that are on their way to the United States.”
Jake almost cringed thinking about the FIM-92 Stinger, a shoulder-launched heat-seeking
missile. “We can’t let those weapons fall into the wrong hands.”
“Agreed. One of the Stingers from a shipment to Europe was used to shoot down an airliner
over the Baltic Sea. Another supply is now on its way to California. We need to put a stop to
that. You could help us do so tonight if you’re willing to serve your country again and shut down
the money supply.”
Jake felt his sense of duty weighing on his shoulders. “Did you say the banker is designated as
a high-value target?”
“Yes. My orders are to eliminate this HVT from the chessboard.”
“I’m willing, but why me? You must have plenty of wild-eyed former Navy SEALs, Army Special
Forces, and infantry Marine veterans who’d love to kick ass.”
“Three reasons. First, you agreed to twelve missions and this is one of them. Second, you’re
closest to his location. Third, this man funded the reward money when terrorists put a bounty on
you and Duke.”
Duke. Jake was quiet for a moment, taking a deep breath and letting it out. When he spoke, his
voice was low and menacing.
“He’s the dirtbag who paid them to kill my dog when we were deployed?”
She nodded. “Yes. The reward was twenty thousand U.S. dollars for any war dog’s tattooed
ear.”
Jake’s temper flared and he began pacing back and forth, clenching his right hand into a fist,
righteous anger rising to the surface. “Who is he? Where is he?”
“I’m sorry to bring up painful memories, but I thought you’d want to be the one who dealt with
this … person.”
“Show me his face and location. I’ll go there right now and break his neck with my bare hands.”
