The Harry Starke Series: Books 13 - 15: The Harry Starke Novels Series, #5

THE HARRY STARKE SERIES: BOOKS 13 - 15

THE HARRY STARKE SERIES

BOOK 5

BLAIR HOWARD

CONTENTS

Apocalypse

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Aftermath

1. Saturday, February 10, 2018

2. May 22, 2018 – Midnight

3. May 23, 2018 – Noon

4. May 23, 2018 1pm

5. May 23, 2018 2:30pm

6. May 23, 2018 5pm

7. May 23, 8pm

8. May 24, 9am

9. May 24, Afternoon

10. May 24, 6pm

11. Friday, May 25, Early

12. Friday, May 25, Morning

13. Friday, May 25, 3pm

14. Saturday, May 26, 12:05am

15. May 26, 3am

16. May 26, Noon

17. Saturday, May 26, 1:30pm

18. Saturday, May 26, 5:25pm

19. Saturday, May 25th, 5:45pm

20. Saturday, May 26, 6pm

21. Saturday, May 26, 7:30pm

22. Saturday, May 26, 9pm

23. Saturday, May 26, 9:50pm

24. Saturday, May 26, 10pm

25. Sunday, May 27

26. Monday, May 28, Midnight

27. Monday, May 28, 2:30am

28. Aftermath

29. Four Days In May

30. Finally

Backlash

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

About the Author

Also from the Author

Harry Starke Box Set 5, Books 13, 14, & 15. Copyright © 2023 Blair Howard

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

Disclaimer: The persons and events depicted in this novel were created by the author’s imagination; no resemblance to actual persons or events is intended.

Product names, brands, and other trademarks referred to within this book are the property of the respective trademark holders. Unless otherwise specified, no association between the author and any trademark holder is expressed or implied. Nor does the use of such trademarks indicate an endorsement of the products, trademarks, or trademark holders unless so stated. Use of a term in this book should not be regarded as affecting the validity of any trademark, registered trademark, or service mark

APOCALYPSE

THE HARRY STARKE NOVELS BOOK 13

Apocalypse

Copyright © 2017 - 2023 Blair Howard

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Apocalypse is a work of fiction. The persons, events, buildings and places, depicted in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; no resemblance to actual persons is intended.

Product names, brands, and other trademarks referred to within this book are the property of the respective trademark holders. Unless otherwise specified, no association between the author and any trademark holder is expressed or implied. Nor does the use of such trademarks indicate an endorsement of the products, trademarks, or trademark holders unless so stated. Use of a term in this book should not be regarded as affecting the validity of any trademark, registered trademark, or service mark.

www.blairhowardbooks.com

Contact: blairhoward@bliarhowardbooks.com

Printed in Cleveland, TN

This one is for my lovely

and ever-patient wife

Jo.

1

The assassin waited patiently, parked in the shadow of the giant Findley Stadium scoreboard on Chestnut Street. He checked his watch. It was a little after midnight. Soon , he thought as he checked his side-view mirror.

He reached under his jacket and withdrew the Ruger Mark IV .22 semi-automatic. For a quiet moment, while subconsciously monitoring for movement in his mirrors, he lovingly caressed the rosewood grips, savoring the silky texture of the polished wood. He ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, reinserted the ejected round into the magazine, checked the load, and then reinserted it into the weapon, slamming it home with the heel of his palm. Finally, he worked the action and loaded a round into the chamber, set the safety, and returned it to the holster under his arm.

It was a warm night in mid-May. Chattanooga FC had played Detroit to a 1-1 draw earlier that same evening, so the bars and clubs on Chestnut were teeming with happy hometown supporters.

The minutes ticked by. His eyelids began to droop. His chin fell to his chest. It was enough to jerk him back to full consciousness. He cursed silently, checking the car parked in front of him, then his mirrors: nothing. He heaved a sigh of relief, shaking his head, disgusted with himself, and turned in his seat to search the floor behind the passenger seat. Locating the package of small containers, he grabbed one, turned back to peer out the windshield, and twisted the cap off the small bottle. Raising it to his lips, he gulped the contents, and two swallows later the energy drink was gone. Then he rolled down his window and settled back to… wait.

It was after one in the morning when he finally spotted the mark… walking toward him from the wrong direction.

Damn! What now?

He’d intended to shoot the mark from inside his car—through the passenger-side window—as the target passed by, but the man was now approaching from the front, so he wouldn’t be passing at all.

He looked across the street, studying the revelers gathered at the Southside Social, considering his options. I can’t let him get away. It has to be done tonight, now, before he can meet with his handler. But if someone… Damn, damn, damn… Ah, what the hell. It is what it is.

He waited until the man stepped off the sidewalk and was about to open his car door, then he opened his own.

Hani, he said, loudly, as he exited the car. A moment, if you please.

The man looked at him, wide-eyed and startled, then he panicked, fumbling to wrench the car door open, but it was too late. The assassin took several quick steps, arm outstretched, gun in hand, and was upon him.

Without a word he fired a single shot into the man’s head just above his right ear and a second into the back of his head as he went down. The muted crack of the subsonic .22 rounds attracted no attention from the revelers across the street.

He turned away quickly, smoothly slipping the weapon under his jacket as he slid into his car—the engine already running—and pulled out, steering around the mark’s body and slowly drove away, heading south on Chestnut. He cruised down one block, turned east on W. 20th, continued four more blocks until he made a right onto Market Street, took the eastbound ramp onto I-24, then slid expertly into the traffic, matching its speed as the hint of a smile crossed his lips at the thought of a job well done.

2

H ey, Harry. It’s good to see you again after all these years. Take a seat. Sit down.

Nice, huh? Well it would have been but for the fact that Greg Parker was seated in my chair, behind my desk in my own private office. I did as he asked. I took one of the guest chairs in front of my desk and sat down; a new and more than a little weird experience for me.

It was during the middle of the afternoon on the 21st when it began. The time was just after two-thirty when I pushed the street door open and into my outer office, a.k.a. the bull pen. Jacque, my partner and PA, had risen from her seat and stepped around her desk to meet me. She had her finger to her lips, shaking her head.

There’s someone in your office, she whispered. He looks like a fed. He’s been in there waiting since nine o’clock.

Who is it? Did he give a name?

No. He just said he wanted to see you, and that you wouldn’t mind if he waited in your office. He also said to mention Hannah. He said you’d know. Does that ring a bell?

Oh hell! Yeah… It rings a bell. Son-of-a-bitch!

The thought was mine, and I didn’t want to share it with Jacque, so I nodded and pushed through the door into my inner sanctum, a normally inviolate territory that no one, not even Jacque, would dare enter without being invited.

Scowling, I said, Not funny, Greg. This office is private. It’s the only freakin’ place I can really call my own, and I don’t appreciate you busting in when I’m not here, much less taking over my chair. That’s like stealing and wearing my underwear. What the hell do you want?

I’ll get to that in a minute. In the meantime, Hannah said to tell you hello and that she’s looking forward to seeing you again.

Tell her thanks, but no thanks.

Aww c’mon, Harry. You never were one to hold a grudge, a little ill-will perhaps, but nothing more. He was right. I wasn’t, and I didn’t. What I did do was dislike Greg Parker with a passion. But that’s now. Back then, it was a different story. During the early nineties, Greg had been one of the best friends I’d ever had. We were at Fairleigh Dickinson together. He graduated with a bachelor’s in forensic psychology in ’95; I graduated with a master’s in the same discipline two years later. Hannah Gordon was, at the time, my girlfriend. She and Greg graduated together. I never saw nor heard from her again. She and Greg were married six months later, and they now have two kids, both girls.

Getting back to Greg, he was… is one of those people who learn easily, a natural, and the FBI recruited him right out of Fairleigh; he’s never looked back. This was the first time I’d seen or heard from him in more than ten years.

What the hell do you want, Greg? I need my office. I have a business to run here.

And it’s good to see you, too, my friend.

Get on with it or get out.

He heaved a sigh, shook his head, and stared at me across my desk. I always wondered what it would be like from the other side. Now I knew. And I didn’t like it, not at all.

Harry. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since those days back in Virginia, and I know we’ve not stayed in touch, and I sincerely regret that. I also know how you must feel about what happened, but I’m here on a matter of national security, so you need to put aside your animosities and get with the program.

I was dumbfounded. Screw you, Parker. You always were an arrogant sonofabitch. It was always all about you. First, get this through your head: there’s no animosity, and never was. I forgot about you a long time ago. As to Hannah… Well, when she went off with you, I figured I was well rid of her. Now, Mr. Big Shot FBI, tell me what you want or go before I throw you out.

Fine. Have it your way. Here’s the way it is, the way it’s gonna be. I need insider help here in East Tennessee and you’re it.

Get the hell out of my chair and my office. I don’t, and I won’t, work for the government in general, and that applies most especially to you in particular. I quit organized law enforcement more than ten years ago. Since then I’ve been shot three times and beaten almost to death. I’m tired of getting shot at. I promised Amanda there’d be no more, that I was done with that life. Greg, I have a kid on the way… I won’t do it.

Yeah, you will, Harry. First, you’ll listen to me; then when you know what it’s about, you’ll pitch in. I know you too well. Oh, and if you won’t listen, I’ll have your ass hauled to the Federal Building; there you will listen. Gimme a break, will you, and ten minutes?

I almost told him to go ahead and do his worst, but I caught the look in his eye. He was concerned. I weakened, but only a little, and nodded.

So tell me. I’ll listen, but it won’t do you any good.

He nodded, looked me in the eye, and said, This is strictly between us, Harry. Not a word of it must leave this office. Agreed?

I nodded.

First, I need to tell you what my role in all this is. I’m Special Agent in Charge (SAC) for the National Security Branch at our Knoxville regional office. The NSB is a service within the FBI charged with the responsibility of protecting the United States from attacks by weapons of mass destruction, acts of terrorism, and espionage undertaken by foreign powers. We accomplish that by investigating threats to national security. We then provide information and analysis to other law enforcement agencies, and we further assist by developing the strategies and capabilities that will keep y’all safe and secure. But I’m sure you knew all that, right? He grinned as he said this. I stared stoically back at him.

Harry, I was here three years ago in July when Abdulazeez attacked the recruiting and Naval centers. I would have dropped by then, but… well, you know. Sorry. Anyway, that was a bad business, very bad. Now we have another situation, centered right here in Chattanooga, that could make the last attack look like… well, if it happens, it would be an apocalypse by comparison.

He stared at me, waiting for a reaction. I didn’t give him one.

Gee, Harry. You always were a tough one to communicate with. Okay, so what if I told you we’re expecting an attack on one of the nuclear plants?

That… got my attention. I sat up straight in my seat and said, Go on.

Two weeks ago, an illegal immigrant was gunned down outside a bar—

Yeah, I remember, I interrupted him. So what? It happens all the time.

This one was special. He was an Iranian.

I stared at him for a moment before asking, How come I didn’t know about that? The word here is that his name was Hani Shammout, a Syrian refugee.

He nodded, saying, Very few people do. We kept it quiet. The refugee thing worked for us, up until a couple of weeks ago anyway. His name… Well, he wasn’t Syrian and he wasn’t a refugee. His real name was Vahid Shahini. He was an Iranian, a spy, a major in Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Corps, the IRGC; the Quds Force, to be precise. We turned him. He was working for us.

The Quds Force? What the hell is that?

He smiled across my desk at me. I had the distinct impression he was mocking me.

It’s a highly secret, special branch of the IRGC tasked with clandestine operations outside of Iran’s borders. The unit was formed in 1980, as far as we know, and has played an active role in providing training and weapons to extremist groups across the Middle East, including Iraqi insurgents, Lebanese Hezbollah, Hamas, and others. They are thought to be responsible for the assassination attempt on Saudi Arabia’s ambassador to the United States back in 2011 and, according to a New York Police Department intelligence report released in 2012, they were linked to nine foiled plots here in the U.S.

Okay… and?

Parker obviously wasn’t used to being interrupted, because he glared at me and shook his head before continuing.

The group’s commander is Major General Amir Rostamzadeh who, from what we think we know, reports directly to Iran’s Supreme Leader. Under his, Rostamzadeh’s, direction, the Quds Force controls many strategic industries throughout the world. They have a very competent cyber unit. They exert control over a wide range of international commercial services. They have a vast black-market network that includes, among other things, smuggling; and that, Harry, is what brings me to you. In March of 2017, Shahini, along with an unknown number of—I’m going to call them terrorists—were smuggled across the Mexican border.

Okay, okay, okay. I get the picture. They are bad-asses, but I’m just a small-town PI. How d’you figure it’s any concern of mine?

Does the name Lester Tree mean anything to you?

It did. I blinked, then stared at him, barely breathing.

By now, those of you who know me, know that I pride myself on my ability to maintain a poker face. The reference to my old pal Shady Tree, however… well, let’s say Parker copped the tell immediately and grinned.

Ah, he said. I see that it does.

I nodded, slightly. Lester Shady Tree had been a thorn in my side for as long as I could remember; since my early days as a cop when I put a bullet through his arm, to my several run-ins with Congressman Harper and his hired assassin Calaway Jones. I’d sent Shady Tree packing during that last episode with a warning never to set foot in Chattanooga again. Does the idiot think I was kidding?

And he’s back? I asked. How do you know? And are you telling me he’s been radicalized?

He shook his head, and looking at me thoughtfully he said, "I don’t know if he’s been radicalized or not. I do know that he’s up to something. Shahini was one of six Iranians posing as Syrian refugees. I have no idea where Tree is, which is why I’m here. I need to find him, and quickly. He’s the one link we have to the rest of Rostamzadeh’s infiltrators. I need you to find him for me."

I shook my head and said, There’s no way that piece of garbage will show his face here. Last time I ran into him I told him I’d put him on crutches if he did.

I paused, stared across my desk at him, and then said, You’re serious!

He nodded earnestly. Removing his iPhone from his inside jacket pocket, he flipped the lock screen, searched through the contents, then handed it to me. I looked at the fuzzy, shadowy image. It was a close-up of the driver-side window of a car. The picture appeared to have been taken with a telephoto lens at night by the light of a street lamp. The car window was open. The driver was just a silhouette, unrecognizable, but there was something eerily familiar about the profile of the nose, chin, and brow. Suddenly, I felt cold.

This could be anybody, I said, my voice lacking conviction. Where was it shot?

On Chestnut Street, at the rear of Findley Stadium—

No shit!?! I interrupted him. I was astounded. You’re saying this is the trigger man? If so, it’s not Shady. He doesn’t do murder. At least he never has in the twenty or more years I’ve known him. How did you get this?

Yes, well, that’s as it may be, but he’s in with some bad people. And he may no longer be the Lester Tree that you knew. The photo was taken, along with several dozen others—this is the best one—by an undercover agent that I had following Shahini. He was upstairs in the Southside Social Club; saw the whole thing. The shooter was good; the entire event lasted less than twenty seconds from start to finish. Tree, if it was him, was out of his car, put two in Shahini’s head, and back in the car and rolling away before my agent realized what was happening. He’s disappeared, Harry, so we need to find him, right away.

I stared down at the image. It faded. I tapped the screen. It returned. The more I stared at it, the more the sinking feeling in my gut deepened. I looked up at Greg. He pursed his lips, shrugged, and held out his hand. I handed him the phone.

Send it to my phone, will you?

Number?

I gave it to him, and he sent it.

And you think they’re targeting Sequoya Nuclear Plant? I asked.

Either that or Watt’s Bar. We don’t know which, not for sure, but we assume Sequoya. It seems most likely.

Come on, Greg. Those places are like fortresses, especially now, and if what you say is true, why are we not swamped with feds…

No, Harry, not fortresses. You’d think so, but you’d be wrong, and you’re not ‘swamped with feds’ because we don’t have them. We’re investigating more than a thousand threats spread throughout all fifty states. This is just one of them. And… He shook his head and stared down at the desk for a moment. Then he looked up and said, resignedly, The problem is, all we have are rumors. We have no credible evidence. And, well, as I said, we just don’t have the manpower to… Again, the shrug.

So, I said, you’re here because you think I can lead you to Tree. I shook my head. He’s not here, Greg. He wouldn’t dare show his… But then the more I thought about it, the less sure I was. Shady didn’t earn his nickname just from the reference to his last name, Tree, he was… well, shady, a shadow that had managed to survive the ghettos for almost forty years without ever joining one of the numerous gangs. He was a crafty, nefarious sonofabitch that could manage to hide in the middle of an open field. But murder, terrorism? No, I didn’t think so.

You’re not sure, are you? Greg asked, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the desktop.

Nooo… How credible is the threat, Greg? Wishful thinking or… what?

I told you, all we have are rumors, but it’s more than wishful thinking I’m afraid. There’s all kinds of chatter in the air. Something big is definitely coming, but where… we don’t know for sure. There are five other major threats around the country that we know of, all of them as iffy as this one. This one could be a decoy, but so could the others. We just can’t afford to take any chances. Now, are you in or not?

Get out of my chair, Greg. I can’t think sitting here. He did, and we swapped seats. Suddenly, I felt a whole lot more comfortable, but yet uncomfortable at the same time. Have you ever felt like that? If you have, you know what I mean.

Well? Greg asked.

I stared at him, my elbows on the arms of my chair, my fingers steepled at my lips. The man’s not fooling. He’s scared.

Greg, I said, quietly. I think you’re exaggerating. You always did. There’s no way they could get that much explosive inside Sequoya or Watt’s Bar. Even a truckload like what Tim McVeigh used in Oklahoma wouldn’t do the amount of damage you’re describing, not to a nuclear plant. The containment is shrouded in concrete. Even the Mother of All Bombs couldn’t get through it… Then I noticed something in his eyes; something that hadn’t been there before.

I slowly shook my head as I said, No way?

He nodded, his face a mask. The word is that two 1960s era SADMs—Special Atomic Demolition Munitions, the so-called backpack nuclear bomb—have surfaced somewhere in the Middle East. We have no idea what’s happened to them. We think at least one of them is here in the U.S., possibly both of them.

Holy shit! Are you serious? I asked.

Nodding, he said, As I ever was.

But why here? Surely one of the major cities would be the better, more obvious target. It makes no sense—

No, Harry. It makes perfect sense, he said, interrupting me. It’s the unexpected, so they think that provides them with the best chance of success. And you’ve got to admit, they’re right. The security in this neck of the woods is virtually nonexistent. They only need to get the device within a quarter mile and… well, life as we know it around here will cease.

Oh come on…

I’m not kidding, Harry. A one-kiloton blast close to either one of those plants would… Harry, did you know that there’s a public access parking lot within two hundred yards of the main building and right next to the switchyard at Sequoya? Do you have any idea of what the EMP blast alone would do to that?

I shook my head, saying, I’ve heard of those things, the backpack nukes, but I’m not buying it. I need to know more.

More? He sounded incredulous. What the hell more… Okay, okay, you got it.

He thought for a moment, then said, It’s not widely known… He paused, then began again, "It’s not widely known that for almost twenty-five years during the sixties, seventies, and eighties the U.S. Army Special Forces packed miniature nuclear bombs; oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s true. The devices were technically known as the B-54 Special Atomic Demolition Munition—SADM—which they carried in a backpack, on their freakin’ backs."

I smiled at the sarcasm, but what he was telling me wasn’t funny. Not in the slightest, and he was right… I didn’t know.

From what we now know, he continued, though most of it is still classified, Soldiers from elite Army engineer units, Special Forces units, Navy SEALs, and even Marines, were trained to use the ‘backpack nukes’ on what were considered potential battlefronts from Eastern Europe to Korea to the Middle East. These elite units were to be inserted—by parachute or SCUBA—behind enemy lines to… He paused to make quote marks with his fingers, then continued saying, … to ‘take out strategic installations or render vast tracts of land uninhabitable.’ Harry, many of these SADMs or MADMs—the larger versions—were more powerful than the nuclear bomb dropped on Hiroshima, and quite obviously would have obliterated any battlefield or strategic installation and irradiated much of the surrounding area. Fortunately, they were never used.

I nodded slowly as I nibbled the side of the forefinger of my left hand.

D’you realize, he continued, the consequences if they manage to set one of these things off here? It will effectively wipe out a big swath of Southeast Tennessee at best. At worst… Who the hell knows? C’mon, Harry. Get with the program. The clock is ticking.

I can’t, I said as he glared at me across the desk and opened his mouth to speak, or maybe even yell, but before he could, I quickly continued, I’m not saying I won’t, but I have to talk to Amanda first—the baby is due anytime—and I need to talk to my partners. So you’re going to have to give me some space.

That was what I said, and most of it was true. What I didn’t tell him was that I needed to do some research, and I hoped I had just the guy I needed to talk to working for me. Yeah, I was having a hard time believing all he’d told me. The problem was that aside from my disbelief, I was able to make some sense of it, even though it was akin to a spy novel, something that might have been written by Tom Clancy. The other problem was, of course, supposing I didn’t lend a hand and all his lies were true, what kind of a chump would I be, always presuming I survived such an event.

How imminent is the threat? I asked.

He shrugged, saying, They’re here. What more can I say?

How about the local police? I asked. The Sheriff’s Office?

He shook his head, his lips tight. No, not yet. We need to keep this contained, at least for now. The fewer people that know, the less chance this mess gets leaked to the public…

Hell, Greg. The public needs to know.

Panic, Harry. We can’t have that. We don’t need for them to know yet. There are less than thirty thousand people living within a ten-mile radius of Sequoya. We can evacuate that many within hours if we have to. The city and its surrounding areas would take a little longer, but it’s doable.

What he was saying made sense. No, what he was saying was unacceptable, but he was right about one thing. Panic in the streets was the last thing we needed, but I had my doubts that something this monumental could be contained. I shook my head but said nothing. My brain was spinning.

I looked at my watch. It was almost four o’clock; we’d been talking for nearly an hour and a half.

I folded my arms, sat back in my chair, and stared at him for a long minute before saying, I dunno, Greg. As I said, I need a little time. Can you come back tomorrow morning, say at nine o’clock? I asked.

He nodded and said, Yeah, I figured it would take a while. I’m booked in at the Read House along with a half-dozen agents for the duration. He stood, and then held out his hand across the desk.

I’ll be here at nine in the morning, he said as I stood and shook his hand. And, one way or the other, I’ll need an answer, yes?

I nodded; he returned the nod, and then he left, leaving me with the feeling I was about to step off a cliff into the abyss.

3

Iwatched the door close behind Greg Parker, then picked up the office phone and buzzed Jacque.

Yes, Harry?

I need for you, Bob, and T.J. to join me, now. Have Heather hold all our calls. We’ll be a while.

Of course. Coffee?

That would be nice.

If you’ve not already met me and my staff, let me take a quick moment to introduce you to them.

Me? I’m Harry Starke, an ex-cop-turned-private investigator, and a very successful one, if I do say so myself.

Jacque Hale is my personal assistant and one of my two business partners. She’s Jamaican, thirty-four years old, looks like a teenager, and never seems to age. She’s tall—five-nine—has skin the color of coffee and cream, bushy black hair, and big dark eyes. She’s not exactly beautiful; although attractive, she’s somewhat skinny, and radiates a captivating smile. On thinking about it, she looks a little like Alicia Keys. She also has a rather dry sense of humor. She has a master’s degree in business administration and a bachelor’s in criminology, which is one of the reasons I hired her even before she got out of college. The other? Hell, I like her. We get along, well, most of the time. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

Bob Ryan is my other partner—there are just two, Bob and Jacque—and he’s also my lead investigator. He’s a hard-ass, an ex-Chicago PD cop as well as an ex-Marine, and he’s been with me almost since the day I first opened the agency. He’s forty-seven, a year older than I, a big man who stands six-two and weighs in at two-hundred-forty pounds of solid muscle—twenty-five more than me—with a wry sense of humor and a deep voice, almost a growl, menacing even when he’s being nice, which he rarely ever is. I said he was a bad-ass; uh, yeah, that’s a bit of an understatement. The man can kill almost without thinking, and he has on several occasions. Unpredictable? Yes. He’s even saved my life at least twice when we found ourselves in hostile situations, and he saved my wife, Amanda’s, too. He’s the older brother I never had.

T.J. Bron is something of an anomaly. Not more than three months ago, the man was on the streets, homeless, and ready to cash in his chips, that is until he discovered the body of a young woman in a back alley. Kate Gazzara was the investigating officer and saw something in him nobody else did, so she brought him to me. Turns out he’s a highly decorated Vietnam vet—two tours, the first beginning in 1968 and then again in 1972—an ex-Marine down on his luck… Nope, luck had nothing to do with it; he was the victim of a shady bank officer who accused him of stealing from the bank, but he didn’t do it. He did some time, and it ruined him. He lost everything: wife, kids, home. He has a degree in accounting, and at the time, I happened to be looking for a financial investigator. Bearing in mind the man’s military record, including his earning of a Silver Star and two Purple Hearts, I figured I could take a chance and hire him. So I did. Jacque found him a place to live and here we are. At sixty-eight, he’s way older than the rest of my team, but he’s also in better shape than most of them; this being due to a rigorous workout regimen he started the day Jacque took him in hand and that still continues. He’s six feet, 190 pounds, with white hair and a heavily lined, deeply tanned face. I wanted him in on the meeting because I had a feeling that if anyone on the team knew about these SADM bombs, he would be the one… And he did.

They all arrived at my office door together, coffee in one hand—Jacque had two, one for her and one for me—tablets in the other.

I waited until they were seated and then began to relate the details of Greg Parker’s visit.

Okay, I said, then sighed before continuing, I have a lot to tell you and I don’t want this to take all day, so please keep your questions and comments to yourselves until I’m done.

The more I talked, the wider their eyes opened in response to the craziness. By the time I’d finished, they were either stunned or in open disbelief, depending upon the individual.

Bob Ryan, the first to speak, said, Hogwash. I’ve heard of those suitcase bombs; they’re an urban legend. The Russkies were supposed to have had ’em and when the Wall came down, more’n fifty of ’em disappeared, so they say. That was thirty-odd years ago. If they did exist, and if they did go missing, how come they’ve never been seen since? The answer is, they didn’t…

With all due respect, Bob, T.J. Bron said, leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasped together, what we’re talking about here are not suitcase bombs. Maybe the Russians had ’em, maybe they didn’t. What we’re talking about is the SADM, an entirely different weapon. I know. I was part of a team that would have deployed one had our government been insane enough to order it. And what Harry says is entirely feasible, though quite fanciful—

Fanciful, Bob interrupted him. You can say that again. Do you seriously think that the U.S. military could lose a couple of nuclear weapons, even small ones?

What do you think? T.J. responded with a smirk.

Would they even work today? Jacque asked.

Probably not, T.J. said. There was even some doubt back then that they would work and being close to them was a nightmare; deploying the thing would have been a suicide mission. Oh, and one more thing, Harry, your friend Agent Parker was exaggerating the effect one of those things would have. I’m not sure it would even take out a nuclear plant. They came in several… I’m going to say sizes; the smallest had a yield of only ten tons, not quite as big as the MOAB, The Mother of All Bombs, we dropped on Afghanistan; it was eleven tons. The largest SADM, as far as I remember, was one kiloton. There were bigger versions up to ten kilotons, but they were far less mobile. The one-kiloton SADM would make one hell of a bang, but devastate Southeast Tennessee and its surrounds? No! Nothing like it. If it was detonated at Sequoya, the effect on Chattanooga would be negligible. It might rattle a few windowpanes, but even that’s a stretch, and even if it managed to breach the containment building, the prevailing winds would take the fallout north and east toward Decatur.

A nuclear friggin’ bomb? I said, aghast. Are you out of your mind? You’re talking like it would be no big deal.

If the target’s Sequoya, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. Downtown Chattanooga? Now that would be a little different. Even then…

What are the chances of them being able to pull it off? I asked.

T.J. shrugged, thought for a moment, and then said, It’s hard to say. The weapon is small enough to fit in the trunk of a full-size car or an SUV. Getting it close enough to Sequoya to do any real damage… I’m not familiar with the area, but I’d say they’d need to get it inside the perimeter. If they had someone on the inside, their chances would go up exponentially. Then again, engaging the thing would be another problem. Back in the day, the triggering mechanism was a combination of both mechanical and electric: the timer was mechanical with a thirteen-minute lead; the trigger was electric and battery powered. If they’re planning on using the original system, it would almost certainly have to be deployed by a suicide bomber. But if it’s not activated utilizing the original system, they would have to completely rebuild the triggering system, which wouldn’t be that big of a deal for someone who knows their stuff.

I don’t believe it, Bob said in a low voice, shaking his head.

I stared at him. I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t quite as sure as he would have us believe.

I looked at T.J. and said, T.J.?

It’s possible, though hardly probable… but I’d say it would be best to err on the side of caution, because even though it’s improbable, we need to be ready. The consequences would be unthinkable.

Why here? Jacque asked. Why not downtown Manhattan or Los Angeles?

I asked Parker that myself. His answer was that we’re a relatively soft target, and he’s probably right. Security around here seems almost nonexistent. And who the hell knows how these fanatic minds work? That being the case, it makes sense, sort of.

I should have offed that Tree sonofabitch when I had the chance, Bob said. You think it’s him in the photo?

I don’t know. The profile… Yeah, it could be. You’re right, though. We should have put him away when we had the chance, I said wryly. Hell, I’ve had a dozen chances to do just that, but somehow I always let him go. If anyone deserved it, he did. But that aside, we have to deal with the facts that he might be here and that he knows the territory better than most.

I thought for a minute and then continued, T.J., you’re not part of this. If we get involved, people could die. I can’t expose you to that. Bob, Jacque, you have the vote. Are we in or are we out?

Wait just a minute, T.J. Bron said. I’m the only one here that knows how this thing works. You need me.

I looked at him, shaking my head. What he said was true, but if things got rowdy, and I knew they would, well… at the risk of offending some folks, I didn’t want to put the older man in harm’s way, and while that’s not quite what I told him, it didn’t go down too well.

At first, he glared at me as he considered my explanation, but then his look suddenly changed to a smirk and he said, You think you’re a better man than I am, do you, Harry Starke?

No, it’s not that—

Yes it is, he interrupted me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Bob was grinning. You think I’m too old, that I can’t handle my end in a fight. Well, I venture to say that I could do a whole lot better than you… Calaway Jones, her name was, wasn’t it? Now he was grinning a little. Didn’t she almost do you in?

That’s not—

Tell you what, Harry, he said, interrupting me again. I’ll take on the grinning buffoon here, he said as he nodded in Bob’s direction, then continued, and if I can’t subdue him in less than ten seconds, you get your way. How does that sound?

I didn’t like the sound of it at all, and by the look on her face, neither did Jacque.

That’s not going to happen, I said.

Now T.J. really was smiling, a large grin on his face. I thought not, he said with a smirk.

Wait just a damn minute, Bob growled, rising to his feet and taking a step forward. I’d like to take grandpa up on that. Oh, don’t worry, Harry. I won’t hurt… Arrrrggghhh?

To this day, I have no idea what exactly happened at that moment. All I remember is that T.J. suddenly leaped out of his seat, moving so quickly I could barely track his movement, and then took two steps forward, ducked slightly, dropped his right shoulder, swung his right fist upward and across Bob’s chest, and caught him on the jaw with a hard blow. After that he seemingly followed through with the punch, his fist streaking on past Bob’s head, and then, like a striking snake, he reversed its direction, the outside of his right fist slamming hard against the right side of Bob’s neck at the same instant his left arm came up under Bob’s, grabbing a handful of hair at the back of his neck, and pulled. Bob’s head jerked back exposing his neck to T.J.’s right hand.

Don’t move an inch, he growled into Bob’s ear, just barely loud enough for me and Jacque to hear. You do, and I’ll open you up like a can of spam. They remained like that for a long moment, then T.J. released him and stepped back, only then opening his fist for all to see the Kershaw pocket knife. It was closed, but when he depressed the catch, the three-inch blade snapped open.

Had that been for real, he quietly said before stepping forward again and continuing, the first blow wouldn’t have been my fist, see? He held the knife like a dagger but with the spine of the knife laying against his forearm so that the edge of the blade faced away from him, aiming it toward Bob.

Instead of connecting with your chin, the blade would have opened your chest from gut to shoulder, like this, he said, imitating the first upward sweep again; this time in slow motion, the blade arched upward from Bob’s waist to his shoulder, only inches away from his chest. And then, coming back, he continued explaining as, again in slow motion, he swept the knife down, the blade glittering under the office lights, and then stopped, the tip less than an inch from Bob’s throat. I would have slit your throat from ear to ear…

T.J. grinned at him and said, Now, you had enough of grandpa, or d’you want more?

That’s enough, T.J., I said. You made your point. You can sit down now. Where the hell did you learn that stuff?

Special Forces. I told you I was part of a team that carried one of those things. He looked at Bob. No hard feelings, Son?

Bob grinned at him. Not hardly, he said, rubbing his jaw. There was no need to hit me so hard; it hurt, damn it. Yeah, okay, you win. I’d rather have you with me in a fight than against me.

All right, Boys, Jacque said. Now that the flow of testosterone has subsided to a trickle, let’s get back to business. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a go, and T.J. is in. Bob?

He sat down, still rubbing his jaw. Yeah, he growled, it’s a go, and T.J.’s in.

I gazed at the three of them, one after the other, shook my head, and shrugged, then said, "Okay, it’s a go; he’s in. All we have to do now is find Shady and waterboard him… Joking, Jacque, just joking." She looked horrified, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Bob was smirking. T.J. was a sphinx.

Bob, I looked across the desk at him, saying, I’ll pay $1,000 to anyone who will tell us where Shady Tree is. Get the word out on the street, will you? Jacque, you call Benny Hinkle, though I can’t for the life of me believe he’d show his face in the Sorbonne. Still, Benny may have heard something. When you’ve done that, call Kate. See if she’s heard anything about Shady being back in town, but don’t mention anything else. If she asks you why you want to know, tell her it’s me that’s asking, but you don’t know why. T.J., you go to that nightclub on Chestnut. Ask around. See who was working that night. Talk to them. Somebody may have seen something, and make sure you specifically ask if anyone saw someone taking photos with a cell phone at one of the tables on the balcony overlooking Chestnut. Okay, that’s it. I need to go home and talk to Amanda. I’ll be in early tomorrow, no later than seven. Parker will be here at nine; we’ll talk before he gets here. Let’s go. I stood and followed them out of the room.

On the way out, I called Amanda to make sure she was at home and to let her know I was on my way, and then I headed up the mountain.

4

She was waiting for me when I arrived. Even almost nine months pregnant as she was, she looked stunning.

I nodded at her distended belly, smiling, and said, Still no sign?

No, not yet… Harry, it’s only four o’clock. Why are you here?

I have something I need to discuss with you, and I’m hungry. Have you prepared anything?

Of course. As soon as I knew you were coming I made a salad.

I wrinkled my nose and