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      For Tom Magness

       (1960–1979) I never had the chance to tell you that I’m glad I didn’t miss the dance.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Prologue

      Crash Hawken shaved in the men’s room.

      He’d been keeping vigil at the hospital in Washington, D.C., for two days running, and his heavy stubble, along with his long hair and the bandage on his arm, made him look even more dangerous than he usually did.

      He’d left only to change the shirt he’d been wearing—the one that had been stained with Admiral Jake Robinson’s blood—and to access a computer file that Jake had sent him electronically, mere hours before he had been gunned down in his own home.

      Gunned down in his own home…Even though Crash had been there, even though he’d taken part in the firefight, even though he’d been wounded himself, it still seemed so unbelievable.

      Crash had thought that last year’s dismal holiday season had been about as bad as it could get.

      He’d been wrong.

      He was going to have to call Nell, tell her Jake had been wounded. She’d want to know. She deserved to know. And Crash could use a reason to hear her voice again. Maybe even see her. With a rush of despair, he realized something he’d been hiding from himself for months—he wanted to see her. God, he wanted so badly to see Nell’s smile.

      The men’s room door opened as Crash rinsed the disposable razor he’d picked up in the hospital commissary. He glanced into the mirror, and directly into Tom Foster’s scowling face.

      What were the odds that the Federal Intelligence Commission commander had only come in to take a leak?

      Slim to none.

      Crash nodded at the man.

      “What I don’t understand,” Foster said, as if the conversation they’d started two nights ago had never been interrupted, “is how you could be the last man standing in a room with five-and-a-half dead men, and not know what happened.”

      Crash put the plastic protective cap on over the razor’s blade. “I didn’t see who fired the first shot,” he said evenly. “All I saw was Jake getting hit. After that, I know exactly what happened.” He turned to face Foster. “I took out the shooters who were trying to finish Jake off.”

      Shooters. Not men. They’d lost their identities and become nothing more than targets when they’d opened fire on Jake Robinson. And like targets in a shooting range, Crash had efficiently and methodically taken them out.

      “Who would want to assassinate the admiral?”

      Crash shook his head and gave the same answer he’d given Tom two days earlier. “I don’t know.”

      It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t know. Not for sure. But he had a file full of information that was going to help him find the man who had orchestrated this assassination attempt. Jake had fought both pain and rapidly fading consciousness to make sure he had understood there was a connection between this attempt on his life and that top-secret, encoded file Crash had received that very same morning.

      “Come on, Lieutenant. Surely you can at least make a guess.”

      “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never found it useful to speculate in situations like this.”

      “Three of the men you brought into Admiral Robinson’s house were operating under false names and identifications. Were you aware of that?”

      Crash met the man’s angry gaze steadily. “I feel sick about that, sir. I made the mistake of trusting my captain.”

      “Oh, so now it’s your captain’s fault.”

      Crash fought a burst of his own anger. Getting mad wouldn’t do anyone any good. He knew that from the countless times he’d been in battle. Emotion not only made his hands shake, but it altered his perceptions as well. In a battle situation, emotion could get him killed. And Foster was clearly here to do battle. Crash had to detach. Separate. Distance himself.

      He made himself feel nothing. “I didn’t say that.” His voice was quiet and calm.

      “Whoever shot Robinson wouldn’t have gotten past his security fence without your help. You brought them in, Hawken. You’re responsible for this.”

      Crash held himself very still. “I’m aware of that.” They—whoever they were—had used him to get inside Jake’s home. Whoever had set this up had known of his personal connection to the admiral.

      He’d barely been three hours stateside, three hours off the Air Force transport he’d taken back to D.C. when Captain Lovett had called him into his office, asking if he’d be interested in taking part in a special team providing backup security at Admiral Robinson’s request.

      Crash had believed this team’s job was to protect the admiral, when in fact there’d been a different, covert goal. Assassination.

      He should have known something was wrong. He should have stopped it before it even started.

      He was responsible.

      “Excuse me, sir.” He had to check on Jake’s condition. He had to sit in the waiting area and hope to hear continuous reports of his longtime mentor’s improvement, starting with news of the admiral finally being moved out of ICU. He had to use the time to mentally sort through all the information Jake had passed to him in that file. And then he had to go out and hunt down the man who had used him to get to Jake.

      But Tom Foster blocked the door. “I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind, Lieutenant. You’ve worked with SEAL Team Twelve for how long?”

      “On and off for close to eight years,” Crash replied.

      “And during those eight years, you occasionally worked closely with Admiral Robinson on assignments that were not standard SEAL missions, did you not?”

      Crash didn’t react, didn’t blink, didn’t move, carefully hiding his surprise. How had Foster gotten that information? Crash could count the number of people who knew he’d been working with Jake Robinson on one hand. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

      “You don’t have to say. We know you worked with Robinson as part of the so-called Gray Group.”

      Crash chose his words carefully. “I don’t see how that has any real relevance to your investigation, sir.”

      “This is information FInCOM has received from naval intelligence,” Foster told him. “You’re not giving away anything we don’t already know.”

      “FInCOM