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By Root 864 0

blindfold. With that done, Clark grabbed him by the arm and walked him to the door, then across the backyard and through the back door to the garage. Hendley, Rounds, Granger, and Jack were standing beside the Suburban. They remained silent as Dominic opened the Suburban’s rear passenger door and helped Yasin inside. Clark went around to the other side and slid in beside him. Dominic got in front and started up. The drive would be down U.S. 29 to the D.C. Beltway, and then west into northern Virginia. Dominic stayed right on the posted speed limit, which was unusual for him. The addition of an FBI ID in his wallet usually absolved him of all speed limits in America, but this evening he’d play everything strictly by the rules. Across the American Legion Bridge into Virginia, which turned into a sweeping left uphill turn. Another twenty minutes and Dominic took the right-hand exit to Tysons Corner. Traffic picked up, but mostly away from the shopping center. It was 9:25 now. He took the ramp to the upper level on the south side of the shopping center.

There, Dominic thought. An obvious Bureau car, a new Ford Crown Victoria with an extra radio antenna. He pulled to within thirty feet of it and just sat still. The Ford’s driver-side front door opened. It was Gus Werner, dressed in his usual go-to-work suit. Dominic got out to join him.

“Got him?” Werner asked.

“Yes, sir,” Dominic answered. “He looks a little different now. Bleached his skin some. Using this”—Dom handed over the half-used tube of Benoquin that he’d taken from the Las Vegas house—“and he’s had some work done on his face, in Switzerland, he told us. I’ll get him.”

Dominic walked back to the Suburban, opened the rear door, helped Yasin down, then slammed the door shut and walked him toward Werner.

“He’ll need some medical attention. Bullet injury to his thigh. It’s been looked at, but he might need a little more attention. Aside from that, he’s a hundred percent healthy. Hasn’t eaten very much. Might be hungry. Taking him to D.C. Field Division?”

“Yep.”

“Well, sir, he’s all yours now.”

“Dominic, someday I want to hear all of this story.”

“Maybe someday, sir, but not tonight.”

“Understood.”

“One thing: Ask him about the Heartland Attacks first. Ask him about his sleepers.”

“Why?”

“He’s trying a little sleight of hand. It’d be best if nobody runs with it.”

“Okay.” Then Werner’s voiced turned formal. “Saif Yasin, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be taken down and can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present. Do you understand what I just told you?” Werner asked, taking the man’s arm.

The Emir didn’t say a word.

Werner looked to Dominic. “He understand English?”

Dominic grinned. “Oh, yeah. Believe me, he knows exactly what’s happening.”

EPILOGUE

Arlington National Cemetery

THOUGH JACK RYAN SR.’S Secret Service detail obviated any worries about unauthorized photographs being taken, most of the members of The Campus—Gerry Hendley, Tom Davis, Jerry Rounds, Rick Bell, Pete Alexander, Sam Granger, and Gavin Biery—had arrived several minutes early in three separate cars. Chavez and Clark came in a fourth vehicle with the recently retired and newly hired Campus member Sam Driscoll, who’d been spending half his time at The Campus bringing himself up to speed and the other half hunting for town houses and rehabbing at Johns Hopkins. Though he’d never met the fallen Caruso brother, Driscoll was a soldier to the core, and blood relation or not, known or not, a comrade in arms was a brother.

“Here they come,” Chavez murmured to the group and nodded down the tree-lined drive.

Per Marine Corps standards, Brian’s immediate family, escorted by Dominic, arrived in the lead limousine and stopped behind the hearse, where an eight-man escort platoon of Marine Corps pallbearers stood at attention, eyes forward and faces expressionless. Moments later the second limousine, carrying the Ryan clan, appeared and glided to a stop. At a nod from Special Agent Andrea Price-O