97

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was almost nine o’clock at night in the nation’s capital.

Pete was still at DSS headquarters but needed a break from the crisis management team. It was long past dinnertime, but he could not eat. He certainly could not bear to watch the news any longer. The war was raging on. Untold thousands were dying. The biggest crowds he had ever seen were dancing in the streets of Beirut over the abduction of the three Americans.

A colleague found him in the hallway and tried to engage him in conversation, but he barely responded. He asked about Pete’s kids, asked if he had any vacation plans for the summer, asked what he was reading these days, whether he missed his life in medicine—anything, that was, other than Marcus, DSS, and the crisis at hand. Yet Pete only mumbled a response.

Pete Hwang was a deeply private person. He was not about to tell this guy that he had not seen his kids in months. That he was in a bitter new fight with his ex-wife. That he had no plans for a vacation. That even his ridiculous attempt to get away with friends to do some sailing had promptly been scuttled. That he would never go back to medicine. Or that he had no idea what to do with his life. He was stuck. He was scared. And the last people he intended to share such things with were his colleagues at DSS. He barely knew them—not personally, anyway—and he liked it that way.

Excusing himself, he headed down to the cafeteria alone. He bought a cup of coffee, found a table in a quiet corner, and sat by himself, emotionally and physically spent and thinking about how few friends he had left in the world. Vinetti was dead. McDermott was a workaholic. Marcus and Kailea were captives somewhere in Lebanon. Senator Dayton was a good man, but they had never been close. Annie Stewart was as kind and polite and beautiful as ever, but as much time as they had spent together, she had never seemed to reciprocate his feelings. He had never pressed the issue. Never asked her out. Never tried to define their relationship. And now . . .

Pete reminded himself that he had decided to let that all go. She was not interested in him, not that way, and she was in fact interested in someone else. There was no point being a jerk about it. And certainly no point dwelling on it.

It underscored, however, just how alone he felt. He was estranged from the church. Estranged from his parents. Never went back to Houston. Didn’t stay in touch with the kids he had grown up with. Never been to a high school reunion. And he despised social media. Who, then, was left but Marcus? And now this.

Pete’s phone rang. It was Dell at Langley. There was news. He braced himself for the worst but was stunned by what the DDI proceeded to tell him.

“Marcus has escaped,” she said.

“You’re serious?”

“I am.”

“So he’s safe?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dell clarified. “He left a brief message on the answering machine at one of our safe houses. We know he’s escaped. We know he’s injured. We know he’s on the run in Beirut and that he’s got a lot of bad actors hunting for him. Safe is not a word I would use. But he is free.”

Pete exhaled. “That’s great news,” he said. “I’ll call Mrs. Ryker.”

“No—not yet,” Dell insisted. “We can’t afford a leak.”

“Mrs. Ryker is an Air Force widow. I think you can trust her.”

“It’s not my call. The gag order comes straight from POTUS. Things could still go sideways. McDermott will brief the crisis management team shortly. But as a courtesy, I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“I appreciate it. Thanks. Keep me posted.”

“Don’t worry. I will.”

Pete set down his phone, finished his coffee, and was about to head back upstairs. But he paused a moment, trying to imagine what Marcus was going through, and for the first time in years, he bowed his head and said a prayer for his friend.