Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,38

and the kid last night at their home, just before 11 p.m. They had restrained and gagged the two, the boy pissing himself with fear, then brought them back here and tied them to two chairs. Worm had snapped a Polaroid of each, and scrawled in his best English a letter ordering Adams to kill himself, or his family would die. He told him why this had to happen. And the threats that followed were extremely specific and detailed. Surgery would be performed on the boy, and they would send Adams Polaroids during the long operation. Then the same would happen to his wife, an extensive, long procedure, documented with photographs that would all be sent to Adams in a neat pile, showing him all the pieces. And if he told a soul, especially the cops, or let anyone else see the letter and the photographs, surgery on the kid would begin regardless. He would never find them in time. There was only one way this was going to end.

Worm had given the letter, the photographs and envelope to Crow and told him to handle the rest. Crow had sealed them all inside then delivered the letter to Adams' office late last night, knowing he was upstairs. The message inside the envelope was very simple.

If he wasn't dead by 8am, surgery on the boy would begin.

The commander of the group was somewhat taken aback when the man had gone ahead and killed himself. He was expecting him to put up some sort of fight or at least contact the police. But he was pleasantly surprised, and would congratulate Worm when he saw him next. Worm’s predictions had proved correct. It gave the leader of the group great comfort to know that Adams died in agonising mental anguish, still not one hundred per cent sure his family would be safe. No bullet from an enemy would be more painful than one the man fired into his own head.

So Adams had killed himself but Crow and Grub had screwed up at the police station. They had let the man called Cobb escape. An operational setback, but not a disaster. Both men had paid the ultimate price for their failure. The remainder of the team would get it done and kill the man, but it would take some extra planning now that Cobb knew there were men after him, much as it would with Jackson. Jackson’s assistant had called ahead earlier to what she thought was the Syrian ambassador’s office but was in fact speaking to Worm, and she had asked if they could reschedule Jackson's noon appointment, seeing as something had come up today.

She had unwittingly saved her boss’s life.

So Cobb and Jackson were still alive for the time being through sheer luck. But they would die soon. He was as sure of that as he was that the sun would go down at the end of the day. At some point in the next forty-eight hours, Director Tim Cobb and CIA agent Ryan Jackson would both be killed. In a way, it would be even sweeter revenge as now they both surely knew it was coming.

In the dark room, the man flicked his gaze to the CNN newsroom, where Breaking Reports were just coming in of a man killed by a car-bomb in upstate Connecticut.

A concerned-looking reporter was already on the street, the charred remnants of a car behind her, police tape pulled up and crowds of concerned residents gathered alongside the news vans and police cars. He read on the screen that the deceased had been named as David Floyd, former US Marine Corps, and he left behind a wife and three children.

The commanding officer took the pen on the desk in front of him and drew a line through the man's name, nodding. Six down.

Five to go.

The two McLean P.D officers who took the call to check out the house with the stack of newspapers were called Beckman and Vasquez. They'd been partners for almost two years and were a good team, Beckman a Sergeant, cool and calm of Polish-German heritage, Vasquez still just an Officer but with an energy and Latina fire for justice that would change that soon enough. McLean was a relatively quiet place, a good town to be a cop. Crime stats were low in the area. Pretty much everyone who lived here was either wealthy or on their way to be, or they worked for the CIA or Congress. Murders and homicides were minimal,