I would like to thank Joshua Hood (JoshuaHoodBooks), J.T. Patten (JTPattenBooks), Scott Swanson, Chris Clarke, Emily Field Griffin, Taylor Gilliland, Mike Cowan, Nick Ciubotariu, Tiffany Glanz-Dornblaser, Derek LeJeune, Igor Veksler, Larry Rice, the Memphis Greaneys, the Tulsa Greaneys, the Houston Greaneys, Jon Harvey, Bridget Kelly, Mystery Mike Bursaw, Michele Prusak, Jon Griffin, and Brandy Brown.
I’d also like to thank my agents, Scott Miller at Trident Media Group and Jon Cassir at CAA, along with my editor, Tom Colgan, and the remarkable staff at PRH: Grace House, Jin Yu, Loren Jaggers, Bridget O’Toole, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Christine Ball and Ivan Held.
VALOR LIES JUST HALFWAY BETWEEN RASHNESS AND COWARDICE.
—MIGUEL DE CERVANTES
CHARACTERS
COURTLAND “COURT” GENTRY (AKA THE GRAY MAN; CODE NAME, VIOLATOR): CIA contract agent and former CIA employee, former member of Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) and the Autonomous Asset Program
MATTHEW HANLEY: Deputy Director of Operations, CIA
SUZANNE BREWER: Senior Officer, Programs and Plans, CIA
ZOYA FEODOROVNA ZAKHAROVA: Former SVR (Russian Foreign Intelligence) officer
DIRK VISSER: Luxembourg-based banker
WON JANG-MI (AKA JANICE WON): North Korean virologist and intelligence asset
ZACH HIGHTOWER: CIA contract agent, former CIA Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) team leader
WALT JENNER: CIA Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) team leader
CHRIS TRAVERS: CIA Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) officer
LUCAS RENFRO: Deputy Director of Support, CIA
MARIA PALUMBO: Senior Executive, Operations, CIA
MARTY WHEELER: Assistant Deputy Director of Support, CIA
ALF KARLSSON: Executive, Operations, CIA
DAVID MARS: London-based businessman
FEODOR ZAKHAROV: Former director of the GRU (Russian military intelligence), father of Zoya Zakharova
ARTYOM PRIMAKOV (AKA ROGER FOX): Russian mafia (Bratva) Vor (made man)
JON HINES: Bodyguard to Roger Fox
SIR DONALD FITZROY: London-based security consultant (retired)
PROLOGUE
The flight attendant standing at the top of the jet stairs slipped a hand behind her back and threaded her fingers around the grip of the pistol tucked under her jacket. Thumbing the safety down, she eyed the figure approaching confidently from the darkness beyond the lights illuminating the tarmac and wondered if she should go ahead and pull her weapon.
There was just one unknown subject in sight, so she’d settled on the handgun, but she had other defensive options available to her here in the Gulfstream IV executive jet. If there had been more threats she could have grabbed the loaded Colt M4 hanging by its sling in the coat closet next to her, and if things looked really dicey, she also had an M320 single-shot, 40-millimeter grenade launcher within reach.
The approaching man wore a black ball cap and a gray T-shirt under a dark brown jacket. He walked with purpose, but there was no obvious menace to his movements. Still, the copilot leaned out of the cockpit, a look of concern on his face.
“Is this our guy, Sharon?”
The flight attendant kept her eyes on the man as she replied. “If it is, he has trouble following directions. Our passenger was instructed to approach from the terminal, but this joker is coming out of the dark near the fence line.”
“You want us to move the aircraft?” The engines were spinning; the Gulfstream had been ordered to land here in Zurich and wait at idle on the tarmac for a single passenger to board.
Sharon said, “Negative. If this guy starts any trouble, I’ll handle him. Just strap in and be ready.”
“Say the word and we’re outta here.” The copilot returned to his controls.
The man emerging from the darkness kept coming; Sharon could see a backpack swinging off his right shoulder, but his hands were down by his sides, his palms turned towards her to show he was unarmed. He stopped twenty yards from the stairs and looked up at the woman.
With the turbines whirling there was no way they could talk at this distance. After a moment looking him over, she waved him up the steps with her left hand, while her right clamped down even harder on the grip of the SIG P320 9-millimeter. She pulled it out a fraction of an inch until she felt the click of her retention holster releasing the weapon, but she did not draw it completely free.
The man climbed the jet stairs. When he was within speaking distance he said, “Think you’re my ride.”
“How ’bout we confirm that, just to make it official?”
The man said, “X-ray, X-ray, eighty-eight, Whiskey, Uniform.”
The woman thumbed the safety back up and pressed down on the grip, snapping the SIG back into its holster. She removed her hand from behind her back. “Confirmed. Juliet, Uniform, thirteen, Papa, Echo.”