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  He hit something hard and pressed himself against it. The beast seemed to go past, its heavy footfalls moving off to his right and becoming faint.

  He felt around blindly, trying to get his bearings, finding himself to be surrounded by thick vines. The only way out was right in front of him. He laid his head back and tried to slow his racing heart.

  THUM

  One single, earth-rending footstep. He closed his eyes and held his breath.

  THUM

  Another. He could hear it now, its moist breathing. Sniffing, trying to catch his scent. It was right in front of him now, close enough he could nearly see it in the darkness. The massive creature made a deep throaty rumble, almost like a purr, as it regarded him. There was no way out.

  "Fuck."

  When the monster roared, the trees shook and a wave of foul, hot breath washed over him. The man's eardrums burst and bled, and he never heard his own scream.

  Dorian

  It was only a dream, but it felt no less real to him than it had all those years ago.

  They were surrounded, deep behind enemy lines. Dorian and his squad were completely off the communications grid, hunkered down in a blasted-out old shack. It was only Dorian and his two men, James Griffin and Darius Lopez.

  Their orders were simple, infiltrate the enemy compound, take out the commander, and secure a small lockbox containing intel vital to the US government.

  Unfortunately for them, as far as the other coalition forces were concerned, they didn't exist. Whenever the Kuwaiti army decided to launch their artillery, he had better be long gone.

  Dorian nodded to his two men before peeling around the corner in a low squatted run. Soft scuffing footsteps followed close behind him. A hundred yards to the left, a soldier patrolled the walls of the compound, his flashlight casting a dusty beam of light through the dark.

  They made it to the wall and followed it around to the right. It didn't take long for them to find the spot they had seen on aerial photos, a crumbled segment of wall nobody had apparently had time to repair. He posted up at the base, watching as his men clambered up and over before following suit.

  The compound was mostly filled with tents, though a two-story building sat in its center. A few lights were on inside, but the rest of the camp was dark aside from the flashlights of the sentries on its walls.

  Dorian held a hand up, signaling for the others to take it slow. They crept across the camp, moving quietly and kicking up as little dust as they could manage. The going was smooth until they heard rustling from one tent as they passed by.

  A light flickered on within. Dorian held his hand up, and the three men stopped dead. It was silent for a time, and he kept his hand over the handle of his combat knife. Finally, the light went out again, and they pressed on.

  There was a metal stairway just ahead which would take them up to the second level of the building. One guard patrolled the walkway. Dorian gave the signal for the others to wait, and took to the stairs himself. The metal was cold and likely to creak, so he moved glacially slow, setting his weight on each foot a pound at a time as he climbed. It seemingly took an hour to climb those eight stairs, but eventually he reached the top without incident. The walkway itself was more solid underfoot, he noted with relief.

  The guard was just around a corner, a few yards ahead and moving away from him. Dorian moved like a whisper, sliding his combat knife from its sheath. In one motion he slid up behind the man, clamped down over his jaw and thrust the blade into his upper back. There was a slight gasp, muffled by his hand. When his twitching arms fell still, Dorian laid the man down quietly. With another signal, his soldiers joined him on the walkway.

  They followed the metal path to a door. Lopez retrieved a snake camera from his pack and slid it underneath the gap, inspecting the small display in his hand. He gestured toward the screen for the others to look. Dorian saw there were two men inside, sitting at a table cluttered with empty bottles. Possibly drunk, but they were awake. Lopez moved the camera side to side. There was nobody else visible in the room, but Dorian saw a window along the left wall.

  Dorian pointed his instructions, then he and Lopez took position on the right side of the door. Griffin climbed over the railing on the left side, taking a narrow foothold on the side of the building. He disappeared around the side, making his way toward the window. Dorian waited two minutes.

  When he figured enough time had passed, Dorian removed the magazine from his sidearm and slid out one cartridge, then lobbed it against the door. The bullet hit with a plink and tumbled to the floor where it rattled against the metal grating before falling through.

  A moment passed. There was soft muttering on the other side of the door, and then it opened. One of the men emerged, assault rifle in hand, scanning around for the cause of the noise. As one, Lopez and Griffin moved.

  Lopez leapt and mounted the man, silencing him much as Dorian had done with the sentry moments before, then sliced his throat. Griffin rolled through the window, slamming into the still-seated man and taking him down before he could react. This wasn't as silent as Dorian had hoped, but the camp showed no signs of stirring. When all seemed clear, they dragged the bodies inside the room and stowed them under the table.

  There were several other rooms on this level, and a stairway at the end of a hall leading downward. It was quiet.

  Now, suddenly, it was loud, painfully loud, as an explosion rang out in the camp. Dorian scrambled to the window. Where a few tents had sat a hundred yards away there was now a smoldering crater. Scraps of canvas drifted down from above, and sirens began to blare through the night air. The camp burst into motion below, men waking, shouting and rushing to get to cover.

  "Shit," Dorian said. "Get it done quick."

  The three men split up. Dorian swung the M16 off his back and kicked down the nearest door. He opened fire, quickly putting down the two men inside, who were just getting out of their bunks. His target wouldn’t be in this room, so he moved on.

  The next room was empty other than a large wooden table covered with stacks of maps and folders. Something there might be useful, but there wasn’t enough time to find out.

  As he left this room, the building shuddered as it was hit by another blast. The stairs, no more than twenty feet away from him, fell away into a cloud of dust and waves of flame. The force of the impact sent him sprawling onto his back. Dorian quickly got back on his feet, now hearing gunfire elsewhere in the building.

  Motherfucker.

  Dorian sprinted across the hall and into the last room he could access on his side of the burning chasm. The floor had collapsed, and through the hole he saw a struggle. Dorian dropped down through the gap and landed on top of the two grappling men.

  All three went hard to the floor and Dorian was the first to his feet. It was Griffin and an enemy soldier. Dorian put a bullet in the soldier's head, which smacked against the floor and splattered blood on his pants. He helped Griffin to his feet.

  "Thanks," he said.

  "Lopez?" Dorian asked. The other man gave a solemn shake of the head.

  "Fuck."

  "We need to keep moving. It's this way. There's a bunker." Griffin was pointing. Dorian turned and saw a heavy metal door. The men tried it to no avail; the thing would not budge.

  "Lopez had the C4, didn't he?"

  "Yes," Griffin answered.

  "God damnit."

  There was another impact as the building was hit again. Rubble fell through the hole in the ceiling and the room filled with dust and smoke. Dorian punched the door, his futile gesture only leaving his hand bruised and swollen. He screamed, and kicked the wall.

  "This can't end like this," Dorian said.

  Griffin was looking around intently, searching for any way to escape.

  "Alright. Damnit," he said. "Stand back."

  "Why?" Dorian said.

  "Just do it."

  Dorian did.

  James Griffin looked at him, an anguished expression on his face. "
We're going to have to talk about this later."

  He raised his arms, moving his hands as though he was grabbing hold of something unseen. He strained as if against some powerful force. There was a sudden bang and a flash. Flames licked at Dorian's forehead and his ears rang. The thick metal door, now crumpled and warped, had fallen down inside the passageway.

  "What the fuck?" Dorian said.

  "Just go!" James screamed. They ran down the long, narrow hall, and the ceiling collapsed behind them.

  ***

  Dorian woke with a start. His forehead was matted with sweat, and his skin stuck to the bedsheets. He pulled himself upright, snatching his cell phone off the bedside table. 8:03 AM.

  The penthouse was cold, but the air felt pleasant on his skin. Freshly brewed coffee awaited him in the kitchen, and he poured himself a mug. He took a long sip and rubbed his eyes, walking into the living room.

  "Morning," James said.

  "Hey, man," Dorian answered, settling onto the couch.

  "Bad dream?" James asked, eying him sideways. "You look rough."

  "Same old shit. Don't worry, you saved the day again."

  "Often do," James said, smirking. "You see?" He pointed to the television, which was muted but tuned to the news.

  The onscreen headline read in bold print:

  MARTIN SINGH ELECTED PRESIDENT

  "They called it pretty late. He was supposed to run away with it, but it was actually pretty close."

  Dorian shrugged. "Makes no difference, right?"

  "Not to you. Not to anyone if we get the job done. But that man is dangerous, if we don't stop him..." he trailed off, staring intently at the man's face on the screen.

  "Meeting still on?" Dorian asked.

  "Yes. Pushed back a few hours, not until tonight. They called a few minutes ago."

  "Good. What's the plan?"

  "Go in—unarmed—" he added, and seeing Dorian's reaction, said, "There's no way we're getting guns near him. It won't help us anyway. Not against him."

  "Never met a problematic man a gun couldn't sort out," Dorian said, sipping from his mug. James gave him a look. "Well, you. But you're a fucking freak. No offense."

  "He's worse. Trust me."

  Dorian's blood went cold. Since way back in Kuwait he had known what this man, his friend, was capable of. It made no goddamn sense, but for Dorian it had simply become a fact of life. James didn't usually like to talk about it, and he hardly ever did anything out of the ordinary unless forced to.

  For the most part, Dorian thought of him as a normal man, though he always knew he was very much not. But this particular thought had never before occurred to him.

  "Wait. Is he like you?"

  James nodded. "And this isn't my first try. But I've got an idea."

  ***

  "Would you please remove your jacket, sir?"

  The secret service agent was a mountain of a man, his face stoic and his eyes obscured by those typical black sunglasses.

  "No problem," Dorian said, shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it over the chair next to him. He raised his arms and the agent moved in, patting him down methodically. To his left, James was undergoing the same process with another guard. They would find no weapons.

  "My apologies, Mr. Black," a slight, middle-aged woman in the back of the room spoke up as the two agents finished their search.

  "I understand completely." Dorian slid back into his jacket, smoothing out a wrinkle with his palm. "I appreciate Mr. Singh taking the time to meet with me today, of all days."

  "The president-elect is happy to do it," she said, indicating a door with the sweep of her arm and leading them through. "Of course, time will be short. You understand he is incredibly busy. And he’s actually still teaching his class tonight. He insisted, to the frustration of our fine security team. But I guess that's just the kind of man he is." She let out a chittering laugh. "Anyway, I’m sure he would be able to meet with you again in the future."

  "Of course," Dorian said. James trailed silently behind. Their footsteps echoed up and down the empty hallway.

  "And let me thank you again for the generous donation." She looked back at him with a smile, which he returned. "Right in here, gentlemen," she said, opening a door for them. "You will find refreshments inside. Mr. Singh should be along shortly."

  "Thank you."

  The woman closed the door and her footsteps faded into the distance. They were in a modern-looking conference room with a large dark glass table. A bank of windows along the far wall looked out over the city from their location two dozen stories up. James leaned against the glass, staring out the window.

  Dorian took a seat at the table, settling into a comfortable plush chair. He examined a plate of snacks in the middle of the table, finally selecting a chocolate chip cookie which he nibbled contentedly.

  "Will he recognize you?" Dorian asked

  "Not by sight. But it won’t take him long at all to figure it out. Depending how much attention he’s paying, he might know before he walks in the door."

  “Not by sight?” Dorian asked. “What’s that mean? Can you change your face or something?”

  James briefly glanced sidelong at him, but didn’t answer.

  A few minutes passed. James remained planted by the window, his brow furrowed. "Hey," Dorian said, extending an open hand. "Brothers. We’ll get through whatever it is."

  James took his hand in a firm grasp. "Yeah."

  The door opened, but it was the woman who returned, alone. "I am so sorry to say that Mr. Singh will not be able to make it. He has had a serious family emergency. He sent along his deepest regrets. Can we reschedule for tomorrow, after his victory speech?"

  Dorian looked to James. He looked angry, but in a way, almost relieved.

  "That would be fine," Dorian said with a smile, standing up. "I completely understand."

  Jess

  "Mr. Black is not in at the moment."

  The elderly doorman wore a black suit and a friendly smile, which faltered only the slightest bit when she produced a folded document from her jacket pocket.

  "I have a warrant," she said, unfolding the paper and holding it toward him. "I'm afraid I will have to insist. Feel free to read it over."

  The man stared at her for a moment, then his eyes flicked down to the paper and then back to her.

  "Of course," he said.

  "Thank you." She slipped the paper back into her pocket and followed the doorman into the lobby. The opulence of the place was no surprise to her, but she was nonetheless struck by it. The entire lobby seemed to be carved from marble, and a two story tall rock waterfall hissed and splashed on the far wall.

  This is a mistake, she thought.

  After her meeting with Dorian Yancy, she double-checked every one of the other suspects. None of them fit. The possibility that her entire investigation so far had been a wild goose chase continued to nag at the back of her mind, yet something else inside Jess told her to keep going. She went to see Chief Pritchard, and told him she'd done as he asked; all the suspects were cleared aside from Dorian Black. He smiled, patted her on the back. "Good work," he had said, "I'll arrange an interview myself."

  Days went by with no word. Her daily calls to the Chief's office went unreturned. Today, he finally came to her office. "I spoke to him," he said. "He's not your man. I think it's time to start running down other leads."

  Jess had trusted the man at his word, that she would be able to interrogate the final suspect regardless of his ties to the department. Nothing but lies, it turned out. So now here she was, stepping into the elevator to his penthouse, a phony warrant pressed against her chest. She’d known Dorian wasn't home, even waited for him to leave before speaking to the doorman.

  Her only hope of getting away with this was that the man wouldn't mention the incident to Dorian.

  Maybe he's afraid of him. He should be. He'd probably assume Dorian already knows about the search, wouldn't want to mention it. Right?


  The doorman had sent her up with a swipe of his keycard. The elevator soared quietly upward, coming to a stop much sooner than Jess expected. The doors opened with a ding.

  Good God.

  The entryway was a tunnel of glass. It was an aquarium, she realized, with schools of piranha and other exotic fish racing past her and across the arch overhead as she passed through. The penthouse was like a palace. As she moved from room to room, lights turned on and off automatically to light her way. To her left, two carpeted steps led up to what appeared to be a bedroom.