next promotion than with doing what needed to be done.
Familiar with the Agency from the ground up, the President had put McGee in charge of cleaning out the deadwood. And he had gone after it root and branch.
But McGee had quickly realized that mucking out the Agency’s Augean stables was indeed a Herculean task—one that was going to take much longer than any of them had envisioned.
In the meantime, the threats against America were growing—becoming deadlier, more destabilizing, and more intricate.
As red tape slowed Langley down, America’s enemies were speeding up. Something needed to be done—something radical.
With the President’s approval, McGee had agreed to a bold new plan, as well as a major sacrifice.
The plan was to outsource the CIA’s most clandestine work. It would go to a private intelligence agency outside the bureaucracy’s grasp. There, safe from government red tape, sensitive operations could receive the support and commitment they deserved.
It was viewed as a temporary fix while Langley was undergoing its gut rehab—a rehab that would have to go all the way down to the studs.
The private intelligence agency charged with taking over the darkest slice of the CIA’s pie was The Carlton Group, founded by the aforementioned, now deceased, Reed Carlton.
And as to McGee’s sacrifice, it was personified by another victim at the scene.
With his blessing, Lydia Ryan had left her position as CIA Deputy Director in order to run The Carlton Group.
That was the backdrop against which Bob McGee stepped out of the SUV, breathed in the chilly New England air, and prepared himself for the horror he was about to see inside.
Tullis met the two directors at the front steps and solemnly shook their hands. Then, after having them sign into the crime scene log, he distributed paper booties and latex gloves. The protection details didn’t get any. They would have to wait outside—the fewer people coming in and out, the better.
The Police Chief was about to show the two men inside, when one of his officers came up carrying a clear plastic evidence bag.
“We found something back in the trees near the end of the driveway,” the patrolman said, holding it up. Inside was a phone.
McGee recognized it immediately. Or, more specifically, he recognized its case.
Made from a rigid thermoplastic, the distinct Magpul cell phone case was popular with military operators. Its styling mimicked the company’s rugged rifle magazines. On the back, a distinct Nordic symbol had been customized. The Chief stepped off the porch for a closer examination.
As he did, the FBI Director saw the look on his CIA colleague’s face. Slowly, he mouthed a name. Harvath?
McGee nodded.
Their bad situation had just gotten worse.
CHAPTER 4
* * *
* * *
MURMANSK OBLAST
When Scot Harvath regained consciousness, his ears were ringing. There was the distinct, metallic taste of blood in his mouth, probably from having bitten his tongue during the crash. The crash.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything. The hood was still over his head. Reaching up, he began to pull it off, half-expecting one of his captors to knock his hand away. No one touched him.
His sandy-brown hair was matted, and his blue eyes struggled to focus.
Removing the oxygen mask, he looked around. The aircraft’s fuselage had been severed into three pieces. In some places, seats were missing. In others, entire rows had disappeared.
He glanced to his right, but the soldier who had been next to him was gone, along with the seat he had been sitting in.
A strong odor of jet fuel filled the air. It was mixed with the smell of smoke and melting plastic. Some part of the plane was on fire.
Under normal circumstances, he would have moved slowly—assessing the damage and making sure that he didn’t have a spinal injury—but these weren’t normal circumstances. He needed to get out.
Planting his feet, he stood. But when he tried to step into the aisle, he couldn’t. His Spetsnaz minder had locked his ankle chain to the leg of his chair.
Sitting back down, he attempted to jerk himself free, first by kicking out his legs and then by reaching down and trying to pull the chain loose. It didn’t work.
Searching around his seat, he looked for anything he could use to help him escape. There was nothing. Without a key, he was fucked.
Though he had been sedated on and off over the last several days, images began to flood his mind. As they did, an unbearable pain began to build in his chest and his heart rate started to climb.