windows and send a cruiser to regularly check on the house and the neighborhood,” Officer Jenkins said they exited the house.
“Thank you.”
“Just glad that you and your sons are safe, ma’am. Call if you need us.” The officer handed her his card.
Lauren nodded. The police were climbing into their squad car as she pulled out of the driveway. Who had tried to break into her house and why? Was the break-in connected to Bill’s death?
She couldn’t reach Angie’s house fast enough.
Chapter Six
Washington, D.C.
0500 hours
Bleary eyed, Jack kept his gaze glued to the TV screen. WTF ? rang continually in his mind. The world had gone mad and marched closer to total chaos with every passing minute. Each report coming from Saudi Arabia and Qatar grew worse in scope of the damage done to the oil refining and storage facilities in both countries. More importantly, the economic and political ramifications of the attack were out of control.
The unifying Muslim world had little doubt that the US and its allies—namely Israel—were responsible for the devastation.
Already financial experts predicted a global economic collapse unlike any the world had seen before. The overseas financial markets had crashed and closed early for the day—China, Japan, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Germany, France and England to name a few. Reports were they might not even open tomorrow.
And worse yet, many moderate peace-loving Muslims now supported the radicals, joining their cry for a Jihad driven world war to ensue and for Israel’s annihilation. Westerners, Jews and Christian tourists around the globe were under attack no matter what country they were from. A cruise ship in the Mediterranean had been torpedoed. A group of mountain climbers in Nepal executed. A school bus of children in Israel demolished.
He was so absorbed in the horror and the devastating implications of it all that he almost missed the news story from Sao Paulo, Brazil. Reporters questioned if murdered Atlanta businessman, Bill Collins, was also a victim in the growing hate crimes against Westerners by radical jihadists. The mug of the man they pasted on the screen was an exact match to the blond terrorist he’d shot in Lebanon.
Jack picked up the phone, his hand shaking. Was he losing his mind? How was it possible? But the more he compared the picture with his memory, the more he believed he was right. The man he’d shot was Bill Collins—or his exact double. There were nuances to the man’s features and the amused glint in his eyes that were identical to Jack’s memory, which happened to be coined as photographic. Even with that fact in his bank, this discovery would be a hard sell. He had difficulty believing it himself.
Jack tried to call Beck first, to see what he thought. He and Beck went back farther than either of them would like to remember, back to boot camp where as greenhorns they’d made a pact to always watch each other’s back no matter what. Jack had always known that if he went MIA Beck would be the man to bring him home and Beck would come running now if Jack needed him. All he had to do was press a few buttons and Beck would be here.
Or was that even true anymore? Something heavy was up with Beck, and Jack found himself a little torqued. Jack was the one hospital bound and Beck’s ass should be the one here worrying about him. The man could sell ice to an Eskimo, and Jack could sure use him at the moment. Beck didn’t answer and Jack left another message, one that left a questioning knot in his gut and had him wondering what was wrong.
The man had been to the hospital only once, just after Jack had awakened from the coma he’d been in. Beck was likely as damaged by the Lebanon blast as the rest of the team, but on a psychological level. Survivor’s guilt. But hell enough was enough. “Hey, bro, it’s DT. You need to stop by so I can beat your ass on the treadmill. Bring us both a beer and some poker cards too. Maybe they’ll kick my
“Thank you.”
“Just glad that you and your sons are safe, ma’am. Call if you need us.” The officer handed her his card.
Lauren nodded. The police were climbing into their squad car as she pulled out of the driveway. Who had tried to break into her house and why? Was the break-in connected to Bill’s death?
She couldn’t reach Angie’s house fast enough.
Chapter Six
Washington, D.C.
0500 hours
Bleary eyed, Jack kept his gaze glued to the TV screen. WTF ? rang continually in his mind. The world had gone mad and marched closer to total chaos with every passing minute. Each report coming from Saudi Arabia and Qatar grew worse in scope of the damage done to the oil refining and storage facilities in both countries. More importantly, the economic and political ramifications of the attack were out of control.
The unifying Muslim world had little doubt that the US and its allies—namely Israel—were responsible for the devastation.
Already financial experts predicted a global economic collapse unlike any the world had seen before. The overseas financial markets had crashed and closed early for the day—China, Japan, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Germany, France and England to name a few. Reports were they might not even open tomorrow.
And worse yet, many moderate peace-loving Muslims now supported the radicals, joining their cry for a Jihad driven world war to ensue and for Israel’s annihilation. Westerners, Jews and Christian tourists around the globe were under attack no matter what country they were from. A cruise ship in the Mediterranean had been torpedoed. A group of mountain climbers in Nepal executed. A school bus of children in Israel demolished.
He was so absorbed in the horror and the devastating implications of it all that he almost missed the news story from Sao Paulo, Brazil. Reporters questioned if murdered Atlanta businessman, Bill Collins, was also a victim in the growing hate crimes against Westerners by radical jihadists. The mug of the man they pasted on the screen was an exact match to the blond terrorist he’d shot in Lebanon.
Jack picked up the phone, his hand shaking. Was he losing his mind? How was it possible? But the more he compared the picture with his memory, the more he believed he was right. The man he’d shot was Bill Collins—or his exact double. There were nuances to the man’s features and the amused glint in his eyes that were identical to Jack’s memory, which happened to be coined as photographic. Even with that fact in his bank, this discovery would be a hard sell. He had difficulty believing it himself.
Jack tried to call Beck first, to see what he thought. He and Beck went back farther than either of them would like to remember, back to boot camp where as greenhorns they’d made a pact to always watch each other’s back no matter what. Jack had always known that if he went MIA Beck would be the man to bring him home and Beck would come running now if Jack needed him. All he had to do was press a few buttons and Beck would be here.
Or was that even true anymore? Something heavy was up with Beck, and Jack found himself a little torqued. Jack was the one hospital bound and Beck’s ass should be the one here worrying about him. The man could sell ice to an Eskimo, and Jack could sure use him at the moment. Beck didn’t answer and Jack left another message, one that left a questioning knot in his gut and had him wondering what was wrong.
The man had been to the hospital only once, just after Jack had awakened from the coma he’d been in. Beck was likely as damaged by the Lebanon blast as the rest of the team, but on a psychological level. Survivor’s guilt. But hell enough was enough. “Hey, bro, it’s DT. You need to stop by so I can beat your ass on the treadmill. Bring us both a beer and some poker cards too. Maybe they’ll kick my
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