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K ENT I SLAND , M ARYLAND

E ven though Ambassador Rogers’s property was heavily wooded and Haney and McGee had been inside the house while shooting, tons of the windows had been blown out and the pair had been firing big, unsuppressed weapons.

It was likely that one, if not more, of the neighbors had heard the gunfight and already called police.

That had left Harvath with a big decision and not a lot of time within which to make it.

Did he stay and deal with local law enforcement, thereby providing Rogers with ironclad proof that he was indeed an active assassination target?

Or did he use the narrow window before the cops arrived to move the Ambassador to someplace safer?

Harvath chose the latter.

After a quick security check of Rogers’s Audi, they threw their gear in the trunk, and all piled in. With McGee driving, they headed to the house where he and Haney had parked their vehicles. As they drove, they planned their next move.

The first item of business was where to dump Rogers’s Audi.

With all of its onboard tech, a sophisticated enough person could turn it into a homing beacon, leading the bad guys right to them.

There was no way they were going to take it to their next safe house.

To the Ambassador’s credit, he came up with the terrific spot to drop it.

As a member of the nearby Washington Golf Club, he could leave it in their lot, likely for several days, without anyone giving it a second thought.

Next on their list was where to stash Rogers himself, and this time it was McGee who came up with the perfect spot.

The predawn drive to Kent Island, just across the Chesapeake Bay from Annapolis, went by in a flash. Riding shotgun in McGee’s car, with Rogers in the back seat and Haney following behind in his Bronco, Harvath spent the entirety of the trip texting back and forth with Nicholas.

Only once, in the very beginning, did he break away from what he was doing to ask the Ambassador a question.

“After you lost your Secret Service detail,” said Harvath, “did you change your alarm code?”

The look on Rogers’s face said it all. He was mortified at what Harvath was suggesting. “You don’t think the Secret Service had something to do with the attack?”

“I don’t want to,” Harvath replied, “but I have to keep every possibility open.”

They had a brief discussion about who else over the years had access to the code.

The only additional person who used the alarm system was his housekeeper, but she had her own secondary code, not the master.

The Ambassador had only shared the master with the Secret Service once they had begun protecting him.

The next thing they had discussed was the lack of ballistic shielding on the ceiling of his safe room. Once again, an uncomfortable finger pointed toward the Secret Service. They were the only ones, besides the company who had put the room together, who knew about that vulnerability.

When it came to the exterior security cameras, cursory surveillance would have revealed them to anyone who had been looking for them. What Harvath was still stuck on, however, was the web-connected home automation system and the possibility that it had been hacked.

That was one of the first things he wanted Nicholas looking into—before the local cops started poking around. With his exceptional IT skills, Harvath was hoping that he might be able to pick up the trail of whoever had been responsible for disabling the alarm and the cameras.

Then there were the corpses, all of which—including the two whose faces Haney had removed—McGee had photographed.

Harvath had sent the images to Nicholas, while McGee sent them to a person he trusted back at the CIA.

Between the two of them, hopefully they’d be able to identify some, if not all the attackers, including the man who had looked familiar to McGee and the duo who had been after Rogers in Rock Creek Park.

Harvath had multiple other issues he wanted to war-game out with McGee, but he preferred to do it in private, without Rogers sitting right behind them. The less the Ambassador knew about what Harvath was thinking, the better.

Crossing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, they had headed south.

Kent Island was the third oldest English settlement in the United States, just behind Jamestown, Virginia, and Plymouth, Massachusetts.

Encompassing only about thirty-one and a half square miles, once you were on the island, it didn’t take long to get anywhere.

Their destination was a large home in a gated waterfront community at the southern tip of the island called the Cove Creek Club.

Covering over three hundred acres, the secluded club had its own golf course, marina, and private security force.

The estate McGee drove them onto had to be at least double the size of the Ambassador’s.

It’s custom, Nantucket shingle–style home was enormous and came with a hot tub, a saltwater pool, a private pier, and a thirty-five-foot Chris-Craft.

The most amazing feature, however, was the unobstructed views of the water.

As they got out of their cars, the first thing Harvath noticed was the temperature difference. “Much cooler than D.C.,” he remarked.

“With water on three sides, it really makes a difference,” McGee replied.

Haney stood for a moment, taking it all in before saying, “Whatever you were getting paid as CIA director, it was definitely too much.”

“This isn’t Bob’s house,” said Harvath.

“It belongs to a lady friend. She’s in Italy for the summer and asked me to keep an eye on it.”

“This has got to be what, five bedrooms?” asked Haney.

“Seven,” McGee stated.

“Wow. What’d she do to earn a place like this?”

“She suffered through a marriage with a real son of a bitch and then divorced well.”

“Very well,” Haney commented. “Okay if I look around?”

“Be my guest,” McGee replied as he gestured for Harvath and Rogers to follow him down to the dock.

While they walked, McGee read them in. “There’s only one set of immediate neighbors, just to the west, but they’re in California till Labor Day.

Everyone is friendly, but with these price tags, as you can imagine, they respect each other’s privacy.

The clubhouse bar and the pickleball courts get kind of chummy, as does the pro shop, so you’ll want to avoid those.

The least amount of people who know you’re here the better.

That goes double for you, Mr. Ambassador. ”

“I think I can force myself to make it work,” Rogers joked. “Thank you, Bob.”

“You’re welcome. Sharon is also very generous with her wine cellar, so remind me to show you what bottles are on the approved list.”

“Will do.”

“And as I know you’re training for the Marine Corps Marathon, I’m happy to let you run with me in the morning, as long as you promise not to slow me down.”

Rogers smiled. “Deal.”

“What about supplies?” Harvath asked.

“The house is pretty well stocked, but if you and the Ambassador give me a list, I can go out later and get anything you need.”

McGee seemed to have it all figured out and so they made small talk as they walked out onto the dock and took in the view.

He gave them a quick rundown on the boat, explained where the keys were hidden, and then led them back to the house, where Haney had taken it upon himself to whip up breakfast. They could smell the bacon cooking before even stepping inside.

Eager to get cleaned up, the Ambassador asked which bathroom he could use and McGee walked him upstairs.

By the time the ex–CIA director returned to the kitchen, Harvath and Haney were already drinking coffee and had poured a cup for him.

With Rogers upstairs taking a shower, it seemed the right time to discuss next steps. They had some pretty serious choices to make.