killing him and then unraveled a plot that put the president of United States in the crosshairs. A man named Vic Rodriguez led the paramilitary branch of the Central Intelligence Agency as the director of the Special Activities Division. He’d then recruited Reece for the mission that had saved the president’s life and spared Ukraine from a chemical weapons attack. Vic recognized Reece’s aptitude for aggressive problem solving and wanted to bring the frogman further into the fold. As a result, Reece was technically now a temporary contract employee of the CIA’s paramilitary Ground Branch, though currently his only job was to recover from his recent surgery someplace where he could take a breath and reset. Unbeknownst to his new masters at Langley, he had a more personal reason for joining their ranks; two men needed to die.
Reece lifted his ball cap and ran his fingers over his closely cropped hair. He hadn’t had a haircut this short since BUD/S. They had shaved his head at Walter Reed and, though it was beginning to grow back, he still hadn’t accustomed himself to the feeling. He gingerly touched the scar on his scalp with his fingertips, still amazed at how small it was. The procedure to remove his benign brain tumor had been a complete success. He was relieved that he wouldn’t be required to undergo radiation or chemotherapy and was happy to be alive after all that he’d been through over the past two years; there had been too much death.
The 4x4 crunched over gravel as Raife accelerated up a set of dirt switchbacks that led over a ridge.
“These things were always underpowered,” Reece commented with a straight face. The Land Rover/Land Cruiser debate was a near-constant source of entertainment for the two friends, neither of whom ever passed up an opportunity to criticize the other’s favorite vehicle.
“I should let you walk,” was Raife’s response.
Raife stopped the old Defender as it leveled off at the top of the trail. The vista of the endless green trees leading to the massive alpine lake below was breathtaking, even for someone who’d spent decades living on this land.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I thought you might like it.”
“The view?”
“No, your new home.”
“What are you talking about?”
“See that cabin down there by the lake?”
“Yeah.”
“Lucky for you, my dad and father-in-law are James Reece supporters. They had it fixed up for you. They thought you might want a quiet spot away from everything to recover. It’s yours.”
“Are you serious?”
Raife nodded, pleased. It’s not every day one gets to surprise their best friend with a new house.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“ ‘Thanks’ would do it.”
“Well… thanks.”
“You always wanted to live in Robin’s guest house.” Raife smiled, referring to his father’s middle name and knowing his friend would get it. “I’m sure he’ll put you to work sooner or later and make you earn your keep so, if I were you, I’d play sick for as long as possible.”
“Good tip.”
“Reach under the seat.”
Reece reached down and pulled out a SIG P320 X-Compact in a Black Point Tactical mini-wing holster.
“Mato thought that might come in handy,” Raife said, referring to their former command master chief who now ran the training academy for SIG Sauer.
“Does everyone know I’m back?” Reece asked.
“You know this community, brother,” Raife said with a smile. “We’re worse than old ladies in a sewing circle.”
Raife put the vehicle into low gear and let the engine rev as it slowly descended the grade that led toward the cabin. A circular crushed-stone driveway curved toward the home from the dirt road that ran past it. The wooden framed house had begun as a small pioneer cabin and that façade had been preserved and incorporated into the newer, larger structure. The building suited its surroundings and was large without being ostentatious. Raife stopped in front of the home’s broad front porch and the two former commandos stepped out of the vehicle.
They wore jeans and faded T-shirts with holstered handguns that rode inside their waistbands. Reece wore his usual Salomon trail running shoes while Raife’s Courtney boots were of a more traditional design, made from Cape buffalo hide and imported from his native Zimbabwe. In many ways, their choice of footwear typified their personalities. Though he’d moved around a lot, Reece was a native Californian, always looking for the latest and greatest piece of gear that might give him an edge in terms of performance. Raife was the opposite, a traditionalist who preferred the feel and soul of an earlier time. If Reece