Katie knew that Reece had a continued affiliation with the darkest side of the U.S. intelligence apparatus, though she hadn’t probed. She’d seen a man she recognized as the head of the CIA’s Special Activities Division with Reece’s doctor at Walter Reed. As a journalist, and with her family’s history with the Agency during the Cold War, she was not a believer in coincidence.
She also knew there was a place Reece needed to visit before he left for the mountains. Reece accepted their destination in silent resignation. It was time to say good-bye to someone.
Katie drove south, crossing the Potomac River, and traversed from Interstate 495 onto George Washington Memorial Parkway. The road wound through leafless oaks, the tall modern skyline of Rosslyn, Virginia, visible through the frosted passenger side window, Pierre L’Enfant’s iconic neoclassical tribute to the republic across the river to the left. Reece never tired of seeing America’s symbols of freedom: the Capitol dome, the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial.
Planes on final approach to Reagan National Airport roared overhead as Katie exited GW Parkway and steered her 4Runner through a plowed asphalt path that would have, at one point, been in Robert E. Lee’s front yard.
Reece had been a casket bearer for too many funerals at Arlington National Cemetery over the years; consequences of a life at war. Katie pulled her SUV curbside on Pershing Drive and shut off the motor. Reece let her lead the way. Neither spoke. He knew where they were going. The sound of their footsteps in the freshly fallen snow was a haunting reminder that beneath this hallowed ground rested generations of America’s bravest warriors.
Reece paused among the granite headstones in silent recognition at the grave of Johnny “Mike” Spann, the CIA officer killed by Al Qaeda at Qala-i-Jangi in Afghanistan. The Alabama native had been the first American to die in combat during the War on Terror. In the nearly two decades since, he had been joined by a legion of heroes who had given their last full measure for the nation.
Reece turned and looked toward Katie. She stood to the side of two headstones on the oak-shaded hillside. Reece approached and bowed his head at his father’s final resting place.
THOMAS
REECE
JR.
MASTER CHIEF PETTY OFFICER
US NAVY
SEAL TEAM TWO
MAY 12 1946
JULY 9 2003
VIETNAM
COLD WAR
NAVY CROSS
Reece had visited his father’s grave only once since the funeral in 2003. He could hardly believe it had been that long since he’d lost the old warrior. He pushed the mystery surrounding his father’s death to the side and slowly turned his head to read the marker just beside it, a newer slab of granite stabbed into the cold ground.
JUDITH
FRANCES
REECE
MARCH 2 1951
APRIL 24 2018
DEVOTED WIFE
MOTHER
Despite the cold, Reece’s entire body flushed with warmth. He fought back tears as he knelt in front of the stone tribute, a lifetime summed up by a few simple lines. His mother had suffered from dementia for several years and had lived her life in an Arizona nursing home after his father’s death. Reece had, in many ways, mourned her since the cruel disease had robbed her memory. He had secretly held out hope that some miracle treatment could bring her back to him; now she was gone forever, back at his father’s side. He treasured his last visit with her, when, in a moment of lucidity, she’d recognized her only son, reminding him of Gideon’s mission in Judges. “You’ve always been one of the few, James. Keep watching the horizon.”
Reece closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer, asking his late mother and father to take care of his wife and daughter until he got there to take the watch.
I love you.
He wiped his eyes on his sleeve as he rose to his feet and felt Katie’s gloved hand slip inside the crook of his elbow.
“I’m sorry, James,” was all she said before turning to walk toward her waiting vehicle.
CHAPTER 5
Central African Republic
THE TRIP TO THE Ukrainian mines in the Christian-controlled district of Bakouma involved a two-hour flight east in the King Air turboprop. Two matching planes carried the envoy at 265 miles per hour toward their destination. Aleksandr had never hunted in CAR. Poaching and years of civil strife had decimated the game population, though he had hunted the jungles of neighboring Cameroon for bongo, sitatunga, duikers, and the elusive dwarf forest buffalo. He briefly entertained the thought of going after a giant forest hog while he was in the area, but the prospect of another rare game animal for