in a fifty-foot radius. Looks like a war zone inside that ring. Whatever it was, that bomb packed a wallop.”

“There was an overweight man in a jogging suit in that vicinity when the shots started,” Stone noted. He frowned and tried to remember. “I was watching him. He was running for his life from the bullets, and then he just vanished. But that would have put him right at the epicenter of the blast.”

They all looked at Alex, who seemed uncomfortable.

“Alex?” said Annabelle again in a scolding tone.

“Okay, it looks like the guy fell in a hole where they were installing a new tree. The explosion happened at or near that spot. But nothing has been confirmed.”

“Do we know who he was?” asked Caleb.

“Not yet.”

“Origin of the bomb?”

“Unknown as yet.”

“Source of the shots?” Reuben asked.

“Nothing that I know about.”

“I hit something,” said Stone. “As I was falling. There was a man watching me.”

“Could be,” said Alex warily.

“The nurse told me they dug a tooth out of your head, Oliver,” said Annabelle.

“A tooth? Then I hit the man when the explosion happened?”

Annabelle nodded. “Looks to be. If so, he’s missing an incisor.”

“Have you seen any of the video surveillance, Alex?” asked Stone.

“No. I’m technically not part of the investigation, which is why I don’t have a lot of answers. I’m in protection detail, which means my butt, along with a bunch of others, is in the professional wringer right now.”

“Secret Service taking its lumps?” said Reuben.

“Yeah. This is a little more serious than party crashers.”

“I was surprised there were so many in the park last night,” said Stone. “And had read about the dinner, but the papers said the PM was staying at the British embassy as he usually does. What happened there?”

“Late change of plan. He and the president had planned an early working session the next morning. Far easier logistics getting the PM from Blair to the White House.” Alex added, “But it wasn’t made public. And yet you still knew he was going to Blair last night?”

Stone nodded.

“How?”

“I passed the motorcade on the way to the park. It only had one motorcycle officer in the lead, which meant they weren’t going a great distance and thus traffic control wasn’t critical. The D.C. police chief isn’t going to waste valuable resources if she doesn’t have to. And the defensive cone was in place around Blair. As many guns as they had there meant it was a top-level dignitary. The PM was the only one who fit that bill.”

“Why were you at the park at that hour?” Annabelle asked Stone.

“Reminiscing,” he said casually before turning back to Alex. “So why so lax about security last night?”

“It wasn’t lax. And it is a public park,” countered Alex.

“Not when safety is an issue. I know that better than anyone,” rejoined Stone.

“I just do what I’m told, Oliver.”

“All right.” Stone looked around. “Can I leave?”

“Yes, you can,” said a voice. “With us.”

They all turned to look at the two suits standing in the doorway. One was in his fifties, stocky and big-boned with broad shoulders and a gun hump under his suit. The other was in his thirties and lean, under six feet and with a Marine Corps haircut. He was similarly armed.

“Right now,” added the older man.

CHAPTER 6

“NOT HERE,” STONE MUTTERED to himself as the black Town Car pulled into the campus-style setting of the National Intelligence Center, or NIC, in northern Virginia. They passed the lush taxpayer-funded landscaping and headed to the main low-level building that housed a big chunk of America’s intelligence operations.

One wall of the entrance lobby was lined with photos of terrorist attacks perpetrated against the United States. A plaque at the end of this line of devastating images read “Never Again.”

The other wall held the official photos of the men who’d held the position of intelligence czar at this agency. They were few in number, as NIC had only been created after 9/11. The most prominent former director had been Carter Gray, a public servant with many high-ranking government positions to his credit. Gray’s portly face stared out at the men as Stone and his escorts walked by.

Decades ago Stone had worked for the man, when Stone was known under his real name, John Carr. As his country’s most efficient assassin, Carr had used every ounce of courage and cleverness he possessed to serve his country. His reward for that had been the destruction of all the people he had ever cared about carried out by the very same folks he’d so faithfully served. That was one reason Stone had ended Gray’s life. And that reason alone would have been enough.

Burn in hell, Carter, thought Stone as the door closed behind him.

And I’ll see you when I get there.

Five minutes later Stone was seated at a small wooden table inside a windowless room. He looked around the confines of the space even as he slowed his breathing and tried not to think about his pounding head. An interrogation room clearly.

And that’s what’s about to happen to me.

The room suddenly went dark and an image appeared on the wall opposite, projected there by equipment housed discreetly in the ceiling.

It was a man sitting in a cushy chair behind a polished desk. From the view Stone had over the man’s shoulder it was clear he was on a jet. He was fifty and tanned with pointy hair cut nearly to his scalp and a pair of energetic green eyes.

Before the man could speak, Stone said, “I don’t warrant a face-to-face?”

A smile edged across the fellow’s face. “Afraid not, but you do get me.”

Me was the new director of NIC, Riley Weaver. He’d taken over for the deceased Carter Gray. Those were big shoes to fill, and the word in government circles was that Weaver was slowly but surely finding his way. Whether or not that was a good thing for the country was as yet unknown.

At the sound of Weaver’s voice, the door to the room opened and two other men filed in and leaned against the wall behind Stone. Stone never liked having armed men behind him, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. He was the visiting team and the home squad made the rules.

“Debrief,” ordered Weaver, looking at Stone.

“Why?” replied Stone.

The smile slipped off Weaver’s face. “Because I asked, politely.”

“Do I work for you? I don’t remember getting that memo.”

“Just exercise your civic duty.”

Stone said nothing.

Weaver finally broke the silence. He leaned forward and said, “I understand you have fair winds and following seas at your back.”

Weaver, Stone now recalled, had been a Marine. Marines were part of the navy, and his nautical reference showed that he was tighter in the loop than Stone had expected. The president of the United States represented Stone’s “fair winds and following seas,” which in nautical parlance meant very favorable navigating conditions. But did Weaver know about his meeting with the president? About his being shipped off to Mexico to deal with the Russians? If not, Stone had no intention of enlightening him.

“Civic duty,” said Stone. “Just so we understand each other. It goes both ways.”

Weaver sat back. His features showed that while he might have underestimated Stone initially, that miscalculation had been quickly remedied. “Agreed.”

Stone succinctly gave his account of the attack in the park.

When he was done Weaver said, “All right. Now look left and observe closely.”

Tags: David Baldacci Camel Club Thriller
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