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R OCK C REEK P ARK

W ASHINGTON , D.C.

B rendan Rogers knew he was being followed. He had clocked the two men behind him earlier in the day while out running errands.

They both appeared to be in their late thirties to early forties, fit, and around six feet tall.

Each had short, dark hair, and was clean-shaven.

They could have been ex–service members who, just like him, were also training for D.C.

’s popular Marine Corps Marathon, but that wasn’t the vibe Rogers was getting.

There was a menacing intensity to these two men—like a pair of wolves, stalking him.

Though he had long held to the maxim that when in doubt, there is no doubt , he needed to be sure. Up ahead, the paved trail he was on intersected with a dirt bridle path, which pushed deeper into the woods. That’s where he would get his confirmation. Picking up the pace, Rogers headed for it.

When he reached the bridle path, he hooked a left and then broke into a sprint. If these guys really were after him, they were going to have to catch him.

The trail led uphill, cutting into his speed and causing his legs to burn. His only consolation was that if he was being chased, his pursuers were being slowed as well.

In fifty yards he came to a switchback and reduced his pace, but only enough to not lose control and wipe out. Racing forward, he shot a quick glance downhill to his right. Both of the men were sprinting after him and closing the distance. The situation was now confirmed.

Rogers didn’t need to ask why they were after him. He already knew. He also knew what would happen if he stopped running. Those two men were going to kill him.

With his heart pounding so hard that it set off a warning on his smart watch, he heaved for breath and kept moving as fast as he could. He needed to figure out how to shake these two.

Racking his brain, he tried to recall the limited training he had been given. Change your appearance. Lose yourself in a crowd. Enter a building through one door and quickly exit via another .

That was all well and good in the middle of a large city or some crowded Middle Eastern souk, but this was a remote trail on a Monday evening in Rock Creek Park. The bottom line was that Rogers hadn’t been trained for this kind of thing.

He was a hard-charging former officer in the Navy JAG (Judge Advocate General) Corps who had wound up as the Special Presidential Envoy for Hostage Affairs, or SPEHA for short—a position the press often referred to as the “Hostage Czar.”

During his tenure, he had secured the release of a number of Americans who had been kidnapped or otherwise unjustly detained abroad.

He was a highly intelligent, highly skilled negotiator who was as comfortable flattering his counterparts as he was threatening them—and had done whatever it took to win.

And when he had won, those wins had made big, international headlines.

But Rogers had never felt comfortable in the media spotlight.

He had preferred to remain in the background, allowing the President to receive all the credit.

His satisfaction came from getting American hostages home and seeing them reunited with their families.

It was that humility and sense of duty that had caught the attention of the White House. With his knowledge of geopolitics and extensive experience dealing with some of the planet’s nastiest actors, he became the President’s choice to replace the outgoing National Security Advisor.

Rogers accepted and remained in the position just over a year, until the President’s term came to a close.

On Inauguration Day, as was the custom, he was the last to leave the White House, handing over the keys to the new, incoming administration and its own National Security Advisor.

That was six months ago.

Since then, two of his colleagues—the former secretary of state and chairman of the Joint Chiefs—had turned up dead.

One had been ruled an accident. The other’s death had been attributed to “natural” causes.

There was nothing natural or accidental about either. Both men had been murdered. Rogers was certain of it. Unfortunately, no one else had believed him.

Right now, it made no difference. The only thing that mattered was that he had no intention of becoming victim number three.

Bolting off the trail, he began to scramble up the hillside in a zigzag pattern, using as many of the thicker trees as he could for cover.

There was no way of knowing if the men behind him were armed and, if they were, if they planned to open fire. The more difficult he could make things for them, the better.

But by not scrambling in a straight line, he was lengthening the distance he needed to escape and was exhausting himself. His lungs were burning and he could feel his legs turning into lead. He wasn’t going to make it. Meanwhile, his pursuers were getting ever closer.

Rogers didn’t dare look back. He knew that any moment a bullet could be fired, severing his spine, or ripping right through the back of his head.

Had he been a religious man, he might have used these final moments to beg for God’s mercy; to ask for deliverance from his attackers.

Perhaps he might have prayed for forgiveness and atoned for the moments in his life where he had fallen short.

The lizard part of his brain, however, that place that controlled his very instinct to survive, wouldn’t allow it. He needed to push harder and his body responded to the call by pumping even more adrenaline into his system.

Ignoring the deadening of his legs, Rogers struggled up the hillside, putting every ounce of energy he could muster into each lunge forward.

He had spun up into such a frenzied pistoning that when he arrived at the top, his legs kept pumping and he was unable to stop.

Losing his balance, he launched face-first down an embankment and rolled into the paved two-way road at the bottom.

Car horns blared. Drivers shortcutting through the park to avoid D.C. traffic swerved to get out of the way. Others slammed on their brakes. One of those vehicles belonged to a National Park Service ranger.

Fighting his fatigue, Rogers forced himself to his feet and, waving his arms overhead, made his way as quickly as he could to her.

“Sir, what’s happening?” the ranger asked, getting out of her truck. “Are you okay?”

The first thing Rogers checked was to see if she was an armed officer. She wasn’t. “We need to get out of here.”

“Sir, I need you to calm down and tell me what’s going on.”

“My name is Brendan Rogers. I’m the former U.S. National Security Advisor. I’m being pursued by two men. Possibly armed. We need to move. Now .”

“I know who you are, sir. I’ve seen you on TV,” she replied, reaching into her pocket for her cell phone. “Let me call Park Police.”

Rogers glanced over his shoulder, back toward the hill he had just tumbled down. And though his pursuers weren’t immediately visible, he could feel them—the two wolves, somewhere in the trees, staring at him.

“Unless you have a weapon in your vehicle, you and I are both in harm’s way,” he stressed. “As is every single motorist out here. Please, I’m begging you.”

The ranger’s eyes followed the same path that Rogers’s had just taken. She didn’t see anything either, but the man was emphatic. He was also the former National Security Advisor.

“Get in the truck,” she said, sliding her phone back into her pocket.

Once he had closed the passenger door, she walked backward to her vehicle, her eyes never coming off the hillside.

Instead of driving forward, the savvy ranger reversed her truck until she felt she was a safe enough distance away, and then pulled a U-turn.

Removing her phone and putting it on speaker, she called Park Police, had Rogers relay his story, and informed them that she was inbound.

Despite the fact that Rogers’s description of the two men could apply to lots of park visitors, a BOLO went out via radio and text message to all employees. Neither of the men was located.

Two hours after entering the Park Police station, Rogers was driven back to where he had parked his car and wished well. Out of courtesy, the Park Police arranged for a marked D.C. Metro police officer to, within reason, accompany him wherever he wanted to go.

The one place he knew he couldn’t go was home. He needed to drop off the grid, if only for a night, as he figured out his next move. So he quickly assembled the best plan he could think of. He asked the cops to escort him to Reagan National Airport.

At the long-term parking lot, he pulled into a spot, thanked them for their help, and sent them on their way.

After looking up a couple of things on his cell phone, he grabbed his wallet from the glove compartment and walked around to the rear of his car.

Popping the trunk, he opened his go-bag—a small carry-on with toiletries, a couple changes of clothes, and, most important, an envelope of cash in various currencies, tucked behind the lining.

It was an old habit from his past life when his phone could ring in the middle of the night and he would be expected to hop on a plane at a moment’s notice. When those calls came, it was always easier to already be packed.

After cleaning himself with some disposable wipes, he changed into a new set of clothes, grabbed his go-bag, and locked his Audi. Placing his key fob behind the cover for the gas cap, he then walked to the nearest shuttle-bus stop.

Two other travelers were already there waiting. One was an older woman with a large, soft-sided suitcase on wheels. When the bus came, Rogers asked if he could help her. She gratefully accepted.

They made small talk on the way to the terminal. She was headed to see grandchildren in Colorado. Rogers lied and told her he was headed to Texas.

When the bus arrived at her stop, he helped remove her bag and placed it on the sidewalk for her. She thanked him and he watched her walk inside. The woman had no idea that he had slipped his cell phone into the outer pocket of her bag.

Entering through a different set of doors, Rogers headed down to the arrivals level, passed several baggage claim carousels, and made his way outside to where the complimentary hotel shuttles picked up guests. It only took about ten minutes for the one he wanted to arrive.

At the hotel, he thanked the driver, gave him a small tip, and debussed with the other passengers.

He then walked two and a half blocks to a much cheaper, considerably run-down motel where he paid for two nights in advance, in cash.

The idea was to leave no electronic trail—nothing that the people who were hunting him could follow.

After checking into his room, he grabbed a quick shower, changed, and then took the metro to Pentagon City, where he bought a prepaid cell phone at Target, along with a baseball cap and a handful of other items. Once he had everything he needed, he picked up some take-out food and returned to the motel.

Sitting at the desk, with its cracked Formica top, he tucked in to his beef and broccoli as he made a list of names. Whoever he decided to contact would not only have to be one hundred percent trustworthy, but they would also have to be someone who knew what they were doing.

Ranking the names based on their skill sets, experience, and network of contacts, one name kept rising to the top. Rogers circled it with his pen. This was who he needed to get in touch with.

His only question was how .