Whiplash by Dale Brown

Lincoln, seated not on a throne but on a simple chair.
    Lincoln was a man who knew the costs of war, who suffered them personally. How many mornings had he risen feeling he had gone as far as he could, yet continued, conscious not just of the burden, but of the necessity of his mission?
    He should take it, he thought. It was his duty.
    And he wanted to. But still, he was afraid—not that he couldn’t do it, but that he wouldn’t measure up to who he’d been.
    Fear was a terrible reason not to do anything. Fear only held you back.
    He should do it.
    Danny felt his pulse rate kick up as soon as he saw Breanna walking from the direction of the Vietnam Memorial. Two bodyguards trailed behind at a respectful distance asshe strode toward the monument where they said they’d meet.
    She spotted him and waved.
    “Hey there,” he said as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek in greeting. “You allowed to kiss the hired help?”
    “It depends on whether they kiss back,” she countered. “How are you, Danny?”
    “I’m good. Yourself?”
    “Busy, unfortunately.” Breanna took a step back, comparing him in her mind’s eye to the younger version she’d known a decade and a half before. He looked a few pounds heavier, though not overweight by any means. His face seemed more relaxed, the space beneath his eyes smooth. She remembered his eyes were always puffy from lack of sleep. He’d always looked a few years younger than he was, and that remained true. A casual acquaintance might guess he was in his late twenties or early thirties.
    “I don’t mean to play Hamlet,” he started.
    “I kind of know what you’re thinking,” she told him. “After my—after our crash, when Zen and I were lost on that island off India. When I was laid up. I went through—it was an awful experience. I wouldn’t want to go through it again. I don’t. With Teri, now—I’ve taken my risks.”
    “No, that’s not it,” said Danny. “I guess—well you know, one of the things is, I am in line, I want to be in line, to be general. And that was one of the things on my mind.”
    “There’s not going to be a list this year, Danny. And probably not next year.”
    “Yeah. But listen, forget all that—I want the job.”
    Having expected that Danny would reject the offer, Breanna was surprised—and then apprehensive. “I don’t want to talk you into it,” she said.
    “No, that’s OK. I’ve made up my mind. I’m doing it.”
    “It’s a tough job.”
    “You trying to talk me out of it?” He smiled, but there was an edge in his voice. Her reaction did make it seem as if she had changed her mind.
    “No,” said Breanna. “Not at all.”
    “When do I start?”
    “Monday. Sooner if possible—as soon as we can get the paperwork settled. Whatever time you need for your assignment now. The sooner the better.”

5
    Tehran, Iran
One day later
    T HERE WAS NO GRAND FUNERAL FOR R AFI L UO, NO FINE oration or long march to the mausoleum trailed by weeping women and bereft children. Like the majority of people who had died in the Coliseum, his body was eventually dumped in a potter’s grave, unmarked and unremembered. The Rome authorities would never know who he was, let alone why he had been killed. As far as they were concerned, his death was an insult and an expense, nothing more.
    His demise did not provoke a great deal of emotion from his business associates, either. Many of them did not even know he was dead for quite some time. Only one of his partners was aware that Luo was bound for Italy, and his initial reaction was both selfish and completely in character: profit would have to be shared one less way.
    Luo’s demise did, however, provoke the interest of one man. His name was Bani Aberhadji, and he had never met Rafi Luo, though he was Luo’s greatest benefactor and even, in a sense, his protector.
    Bani Aberhadji drew a paycheck as a low-ranking functionary in the Iranian ministry responsible for motor vehicles,