Page 1 of The 9th Man

1

Genappe, Belgium

Tuesday — March 24 — 6:12A.M.

LUKE DANIELS HAD ONLY ALLOWED ONE MAN TO EVER GET THE BESTof him. Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone. With an uppercut out of nowhere that had dropped him to the deck of a boat. At their first meeting. On the choppy waters of the Øresund, which separated the northern Danish island of Zealand from the southern Swedish province of Scania. Ordinarily, he would have responded with a swing of his own. But not that day.

“Seems you got yourself a partner,” Malone said to him. “Me.”

“Do you have a pad and pen I could borrow so I can take notes on what I learn?”

“You always such a smart-ass?”

“You always so warm and friendly?”

“Somebody’s got to see to it that Frat Boys, like you, don’t get hurt,” Malone said.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Pappy. I can take care of myself.”

“Thought I told you not to call me that.”

“Yeah. I heard you. And I gave you one free punch. There won’t be any more freebies.”

Malone’s green eyes threw him a challenge that said it all.

Go for it.

But he’d let it go.

As introductions went, he’d had worse. Yet none had more profoundly affected his life than that one.

But enough musing.

Time to move.

He started to climb out of the rented Peugeot but stopped as Malone’s quiet, prudent voice, laced with a hint of a southern accent, whispered in his head.Slow down. You don’t know the area. Sit for a bit, get a feel for things.

Haste makes for a wasted agent.

Good thing he’d taken those mental notes.

So he sat in the seat and scanned the darkened suburban street that stretched before him. Patience went against his grain. Army Rangers weren’t sit-on-your-hands types. More direct action, and Luke had never rid himself of that bold audacity. He’d wanted to be in the military since he’d first noticed hair on his chin, and he’d accomplished that goal, skipping college, enlisting, then graduating from Ranger school. He served ten years with three tours in combat. Once out, he’d needed a job and the CIA had been his first choice. Having an uncle as the then-president of the United States should have been an asset. But he’d never once asked Danny Daniels for help.

Whatever he got, he wanted to earn.

And he found out that being recruited into the CIA’s clandestine service was a smidge trickier than filling out an application. He’d made it past the initial interview but had been washed out after the next round. Then a call came from something called the Magellan Billet. Uncle Danny had put in a good word with Stephanie Nelle, who both created and headed the Justice Department’s unsung special operations branch. But she’d been crystal-clear. No special treatment. No excuses. He had to earn his spot. Every step of the way.

And he had.

Handling assignments, as ordered.

The Billet now felt like home.

But this trip to Belgium wasn’t official business.

No, this little foray was all personal.

Rue Emile Hecq stretched about half a mile on the outskirts of Genappe. The homes along its edges less suburban and more rustic, mostly two-story, white-stucco-and-brick A-frames, topped by traditional mansard roofs. The street was narrow, bordered by cobblestoned sidewalks and small, tidy front yards, each property separated by dense waist-high hedges. A lone streetlight, glowing amber in the night’s mist, stood about a hundred feet away. Aside from his rental car there were no other parked vehicles.