Private Moscow (Private 15)

Dinara’s entire body bristled with nervous energy, and her heart felt as though it might burst from her chest. But she sat perfectly still and pretended to be calm.

Up ahead, the Marine finally nodded at someone inside the guardhouse, and the wedge barrier descended into the road.

“Boss?” Hector asked.

“Drive on,” Jack replied.

Hector steered around the chicanes slowly, and stopped beside the Marine.

Dinara took a deep breath and held it as Hector lowered his window.

“State your business,” the Marine said.

Dinara gasped when Jack Morgan produced Hudson’s pistol and pointed it at Hector’s head.

“I want to see Colonel Steve Fuller, the base XO. If he’s not here in three minutes, I will execute these hostages.”

The Marine stepped back and raised his rifle. “Put the gun down!” he yelled.

A klaxon sounded, and more Marines ran from the guardhouse and surrounded the vehicle, their weapons trained on Jack.

“Boss,” Hector said anxiously.

Dinara was trembling, but when she looked at Jack, she saw nothing but ice in his eyes.

“Two minutes thirty,” Jack said.

“Drop it!” another Marine commanded.

“Put the gun down!” the first Marine shouted. “Or I will open fire.”

“Jack,” Hector said nervously.

Dinara jumped when there was sudden movement, and Jack’s passenger door was yanked open and he was pulled roughly from the car. A huge Marine pushed Jack to the ground, and ripped the pistol from his grasp.

Two other Marines pointed their assault rifles at Jack’s head.

“Don’t move!” one of them commanded.

The look on Jack’s face made it clear to Dinara that she’d just witnessed the last gamble of a desperate man.

CHAPTER 105

“YOU’VE GOT TO listen to me, corporal,” I said. “I need to see Colonel Steve Fuller right now.”

I was in the back of a Marine Corps Police vehicle. The large white Dodge Durango SUV was flashed with the red and blue livery of the Corps, and a gold Marine Police badge dominated both front doors. I’d thought my days of being subject to military justice were long gone, but I was in the charge of a corporal, who sat in the front passenger seat, and a private who was driving. The corporal was in his mid-thirties; he had a weather-beaten face and the calm demeanor of someone with a great deal of experience. He was too old for advancement and too young for retirement. The private couldn’t have had more than a couple of years under his belt. Unlike his partner, he’d looked anxious when

the fire-watch team at the guardhouse had handed me over.

“The national security of the United States is at stake, corporal,” I said, focusing my attention on the older man, hoping his experience would enable him to recognize I was telling the truth.

I saw a flicker of interest, but the private shot the corporal a skeptical glance.

After my arrest, my wrists had been cable-tied and I’d been frogmarched to the Durango. If I couldn’t convince the corporal and his sidekick, I had no doubt I was headed for the brig, where I’d be held until they could figure out which particular branch of law enforcement got me first. News of my capture would travel fast, and the vultures would already be circling.

“Come on, corporal. I was a winger, a Corps pilot, in Afghanistan with MAG Forty. I’m a patriot, corporal. I served with honor, and I swear by God and country that I’m telling the truth.”

I saw him waver, but the change was momentary, and was quickly replaced by stern detachment.