Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

"So now we're going to attack a nation of innocent civilians." The long-haired English professor leaned forward and slapped his hand against the rectangular table. The man had to be in his fifties, making his ponytail more pathetic than hip.

Beside him, a chubby redhead nodded, apparently awed by the professor's insights. Opposite him, another man—this one bald, though he didn't look over twenty-five—responded to the remark with something equally ridiculous.

From his spot at the end of the table, Lieutenant Mark Johnson shot his old friend a look, but Justin just shrugged and gulped another swig of beer.

When Mark had arrived that day after twelve hours on the road, Justin had broken the news that he'd made plans for them. "It'll be low key," he'd promised. "No big deal."

Right.

Mark and Justin had grown up together. Back then, they'd both been athletes. Clean-cut and church-going. Mark still was—well, clean-cut, anyway. He needed to work on the church-going part.

These days, Justin looked every bit the Brown University grad student, right down to the bushy beard. He just needed one of those goofy blazers with the elbow patches.

Mark had never been much of a drinker, but if he was going to endure Justin's idiot friends, he might need a second beer.

The English professor continued the lecture, focusing most of his attention on his fan club, sycophants with wide eyes and slack jaws. Maybe their slack jaws could be attributed to the professor's brilliant discourse. More likely, he'd shocked them by spewing his beliefs in front of a Marine just two months after terrorists flew planes into New York's Twin Towers and the Pentagon. They would've hit another government building if not for the heroes on board that flight. Thousands had been murdered that day, but the professor didn't seem concerned about the innocent lives lost. He was more interested in placing blame—squarely on the victims.

Yup. This was exactly how Mark wanted to spend one of his last nights of freedom—listening to a liquored-up anti-American on a soapbox.

He needed a distraction.

The bar was a typical college-town hotspot, though fancier than some Mark had seen. The exposed brick walls displayed enlarged black-and-white cityscapes—Providence, he guessed, though he wasn't familiar with the city's skyline. He'd stopped in Rhode Island on his long drive back to New Hampshire from California.

The place had been about half full, the music at a talkable volume, when they'd arrived an hour earlier.

Now, college students crowded around the long bar. As their voices rose, so did the music.

Where was their server? Mark wouldn't miss the woman whose pierced face had more metal than a suicide bomber's vest.

"This whole thing was our fault to begin with," Professor Lightweight continued, loudly enough that Mark couldn't ignore him. "Those so-called terrorists are only responding to American imperialism."

Every muscle in Mark's body tensed. He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. This weasel needed a history lesson.

But he didn't bother. Why waste his breath?

The chubby redhead said, "I'm not sure about that…" And he was off, chasing the American imperialism rabbit trail.

The professor downed the last drop of his frou-frou drink. He seemed like the appletini type.

The waitress's apron strings caught Mark's eye as she scooted behind his chair. "Excuse me."

The woman turned. Not the metal-infested face he'd expected, but a blond-haired stunner.

"You need something?" Her gaze met his, then darted across the room. Tears hovered in her blue eyes and made them sparkle.

"Something wrong?" He followed her gaze and caught sight of two men at a bar-height table near the door, staring at her.

One was laughing.

The other's mouth hung open. When he caught her looking his way, he licked his lips.

Mark would've stood and confronted them if she weren't behind his chair, blocking him. "They bothering you?"

She glanced at him again, then at the others at the table. "Another round?"

Mark heard their chorus of yeses but kept his focus on the guys paying the server far too much attention.

"Did you want another one?" she asked Mark.

"Sure."

She walked toward the bar, keeping at least two tables between herself and those men. On her way, she stopped near the front door and whispered in the bouncer's ear, pointing out the two yahoos.

The bouncer shoved his way through the crowd and escorted them outside.

The waitress hadn't needed Mark's help after all.

"…to Iraq, which was his plan all along," the professor said. "That's why they didn't stop the attack. Any excuse to get Saddam."

Mark glared at Justin. "Seriously? I'm here for three days, and I have to put with this guy?"

His friend leaned in. "He wanted to meet you." He lowered his voice. "I didn't realize… He's not usually like this."

Mark didn't bother to whisper. "Meaning he's usually a sober anti-American conspiracy theorist?"

"I work for him. What was I supposed to say?"

"‘We have plans' would've worked."

"Just ignore him." But when the professor started in again, Justin interrupted. "Let's change the subject. Mark's had enough."

The professor hiccupped. "Have I offended the bellicose combatant?" He slurred his insult. "Ought I to be afraid?"

"Hey." Justin lost the placating tone. "He's my friend. Knock it off."

Mark rarely had trouble keeping his temper under control, but this guy was pushing it. A distraction…any distraction would work.

"Don't worry," the professor whispered, though Mark doubted he was trying not to be heard. "He doesn't understand what I said."

And…that was it.

Mark dropped his chair legs back to the floor with a thump that had the two sycophants jumping. "I'm a Marine, so I must be an idiot, right?"

The professor shrugged, not bothering to hide his smile.

"What do you teach, professor?"

"Literature. I prefer British, but I dabble in French and American, when I must."

"You think understanding Shakespeare makes you qualified to discuss Middle Eastern politics?"

Before he could answer, Justin jumped in. "Mark studied"—he glanced at him—"Middle Eastern history, right?"

The professor's eyebrows rose. "Community college?"

"Arabic language and culture at the Naval Academy."

"Ah. Easier to kill them when you understand them."

Mark leaned across the table toward the little man, whose eyes widened, his mouth opening in a little O. He backed away the tiniest bit, proving that even drunk, he was smart enough to be nervous.

"I believe like Shakespeare believed. ‘A peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser.'"

The professor straightened. He opened his mouth, but he couldn't seem to think of anything to say. If not for all the liquor, he would've had a ready answer. It wasn't as if there weren't reasonable voices on the other side of the argument.

Losing his patience, Mark turned to the other grad students at the table. "History has proved that you don't get to peace unless you show your enemy you're willing to fight for it—and that you can win. The opposite of war isn't always peace. Often, it's oppression or slavery. Just ask any of the six million Jews who went peacefully to concentration camps."

The pierced server returned, the dim lights reflecting off the bolt in her nose. "Amanda said you needed another round." She handed out the drinks, careful to balance the professor's appletini as she lifted it across the table. He didn't take it from her. Instead, he looked down her shirt when she leaned over to set it in front of him.

Drunk, conspiracy theorist, pervert. The list grew.

Why was Mark trying to have a reasonable discussion with this guy and his pathetic fan club? They were already back to their stupid talk about their stupid ideas that had no place in the real world.

After the server handed Mark his beer, she laid her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Let me know if there's anything else I can get for you."

Mark thanked her, pretending he hadn't heard the invitation, and concentrated on sipping his beer.

Where was that blonde? Amanda, the other server had called her.

There, handing out longnecks to a bunch of guys crowded around a table with too few chairs. She was smiling now.

She had a beautiful smile.

Most people here were younger than Mark. His friend, the eternal student, had dragged him here tonight, and it might've been fun if not for Professor Lightweight and his fan club. The bar was packed now, people filling every square inch of the place—standing, drinking, flirting. Five women—barely twenty-one, if he had to guess—threw back test tubes full of green liquid. They'd regret that in the morning. A man and woman were making out in a corner, and they weren't the only ones getting too friendly in a public place. Students occupied every stool and chair, and more lined the bar three or four deep, clamoring for drinks.

The hair on the back of Mark's neck stood up.

He scanned the room again, more slowly. There, by the window at a table for two, a young man sat alone. Hoodie pulled up over his head, yellow-blond hair sticking out underneath. Mark followed his gaze to the blond server. The man watched her as she took drink orders from a table a few feet away.

When Mark watched her mouth and focused, he could hear her voice above the din. She sounded carefree now that those two jerks were gone.

But the hooded guy by the windows was still watching.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck but couldn't wipe away the feeling. Something was wrong.

Beside him, Justin was saying, "You should see this guy in action." He tilted his amber-colored bottle in Mark's direction. "The women this guy gets. We should've all been Marines, eh?"

Mark raised his eyebrows. "That's why I joined."

The professor's skin had turned an unattractive shade of puce. Any second, he'd lose his liquor.

"It's true, right? Since the attack?" Justin elbowed Mark, splashing his beer on his T-shirt.

He grabbed a cocktail napkin and soaked up the liquid. "I'll admit women have been a bit more... grateful in the last couple of months." Mark had never lacked for dates. He usually contented himself to be his buddies' wingman and went home alone.

Fewer complications.

Justin raised his glass. "See? Still never getting married, right?"

"Unlike you. Does your fiancée know she's going to have to forever support your addiction to school?"

"Nah. I'll finish my master's this fall and hopefully"—he nodded to the professor— "be hired full-time next summer."

The professor picked up the conversation, and Mark tuned out, scanning the bar again.

Hoodie still had his eyes on the server, who didn't seem to realize she was being watched.

Then, just like that, she stepped out the front door. End of her shift? He glanced at his watch. It was just after eleven.

He looked up in time to see the creepy guy in the hoodie follow her.

The hair on the back of his neck rose again, and this time, Mark rose with it. He tossed a twenty on the table. "I'll meet you back at your condo."

Justin started to stand, but Mark dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Stay. Have fun. I'll see you later."