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I said, “Hey, Marge, It’s Pike Logan, here to see George Wolffe.”

“I’m sorry. There’s nobody here by that name. I’m going to unlock the outer door. Please be on your way.”

Just great.I threw out the only phrase I still remembered, from months ago, “Hey, we’re here about your team-building services. We were told about it from Xavier Barclay.”

We heard nothing for a moment, Marge’s cranky brain knowing the old phrase meant we knew something, but it wasn’t the correct something. Finally, she said, “Xavier no longer works here. Do you have another name?”

Exasperated, I said, “Marge, Wolffe called us up here. Come on. Just call him on the phone.”

“Sir, there is nobody here by that name. If you wish, I’ll call security and have you escorted out.”

Jennifer bumped me out of the way, leaned into the camera, and said, “Marge, it’s Jennifer here. Sorry our data is old. Before we go, did you get my cookies?”

There was silence for a moment, then, “Why yes, I did. They were delicious.” Another pause, then, “Okay, I really shouldn’t be doing this, but hang on. I’ll see if I can get George on the line.”

I muttered under my breath, “So the security protocols can be breached by Christmas cookies? I’ll let ISIS know.”

Jennifer elbowed me and said, “Thanks, Marge.”

I heard the inner door click open and snatched it before Marge could change her mind. She said, “Third-floor conference room. He’s expecting you.”

We went to the elevator and exited on the third floor, walking down to the conference room—the SCIF—and entered without preamble, seeing the Taskforce version of the White House Situation Room.

The space was dominated by a long wooden table, the grain polished to a luster, plugs and ports in front of each seat. The walls were adorned with various trophies from different operations—flags, weapons, and the like—with the far wall holding nothing but a giant flat-screen monitor.

Two high-backed leather chairs swung around at our entrance and I saw a tall Caucasian guy, hippy looking with shaggy black hair, and a black man built like a fireplug, short and nothing but muscle. Knuckles and Brett, both grinning at me.

Brett said, “So you had some issues getting past Marge?”

Damn tattletale.I fist bumped both of them and said,“Not really. I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve penetrated security tougher than Marge before.”

They stood for a hug from Jennifer, who said, “My cookies got us in.”

Damn tattletale. I changed the subject, saying, “Where’s Veep?”

Knuckles said, “Still on the way. We’ll get this briefing without him.”

I’d rather have everyone here for the brief, as everyone on my team was an Operator and they knew to ask any questions I would miss. With this call-up, I figured George Wolffe would have waited for the whole package.

My team was a little eclectic—as the makeup could attest—and the longest-serving commercial cover organization within the Taskforce. Most of the Operators in the Taskforce fell into a cover for an operationbut didn’t really live it. They just used it for that specific mission, then fell into another one for the next mission, usually burning the first to the ground. The covers were all plug-and-play, run by bureaucrats and bean counters with just enough of a veneer of respectability to allow the Operators to penetrate a hostile area.

GRS was different in that we lived it daily. It was a legitimate company, with legitimate business contracts. As such, we were the only cover organization that was run by Operators, and my team makeup showed it.

Knuckles was a Navy SEAL, and my second-in-command. Brett was a former Force Recon Marine who now worked within the paramilitary branch of the CIA. Veep—aka Nicholas Seacrest—was an Air Force combat controller, who also happened to be the son of the current president of the United States. I’d given him the callsign when his father was still the vice president.

I said, “So what’s the rush? What’s this all about? Where’s Wolffe?”

The door to the SCIF opened, and Wolffe said, “I’m right here, and sorry for pulling you up to DC, but you need to get on the road.”

“Where?”

“Goa, India.”

Chapter5

Kamal poked his head around the stone wall, taking a quick glance. At the top of the stairwell sat a single man in a chair dressed in civilian clothes, the lightbulb above his head creating shadows around his body. Kamal whispered, “That man is RAW. He won’t be like the security guard. We need to take him out immediately.”

Agam said, “I’ll handle him. Be prepared to follow me up the stairs on the run.”