Chapter 1

1

SIX MONTHS LATER

NEW brAUNFELS, TEXAS

Delaney Thompson stood in the center of a middle school gym—one that was a blasted twenty-seven years old, complete with the usual aluminum bleachers, multiple basketball hoops. The usual must of sweat and body odor. This was obviously a torturous middle school just like the one she'd attended.

At her side, Surge pressed his shoulder into her thigh.

"Yeah, sorry about the smells . . ." She grinned down at her jet-black Belgian Malinois boy and stroked the thick coat around his neck.

Okay. Technically, he was Heath "Ghost" Daniels's A Breed Apart dog.

She buried her hands back into his fur. "You've got this, bud. When the students get here, you'll show them your awesome scent skills. This'll prove your recovery to Heath too."

Heath. She sniffed. He'd been her mentor since high school—five years. Now he was her boss.

The vein in Heath's neck had throbbed when he'd found out about the eight grueling weeks of counterconditioning training she'd been doing with Surge. Behind his back. And Crew's. Crew Gatlin had procured Surge for the ranch, but both men were considering retiring the four-legged hero because Surge was a tough nut to crack. But Delaney knew this maligator well and believed he had more work in him before being relegated to Fort Couch for the rest of his days.

Unbelievably, Heath was letting her continue to work with Surge, despite her clandestine training.

She sniffed again, stood to check the setup of her video camera. Then glanced at Surge and—oh man. Black fur stuck to the white pants she'd stupidly chosen to look all professional for the scent discrimination demo today.

She brushed off the MWD's fur, then gave Surge an ear rub. "You've got this. I've got this." She stepped back and grinned. "This is your first ever solo demonstration. Are you ready?"

Surge leapt into her arms, and she laughed, hugged him before he jumped back down.

If he was ready, she was. And she wouldn't get fired. She hoped.

The school bell rang.

Surge stood and turned toward the gaping gym doors, panting as his ears swiveled toward Mr. Finch's social studies students pouring into the gym.

"Good boy," she whispered, burying her hand in his fur. "We're here to show Heath and Crew that you're ready to work again, right?"

Surge's post-traumatic stress after the death of his sister, Tsunami, had relegated him to the ranch, where he'd excelled. Except with certain sounds. The school shouldn't be a problem, since the bell's tone was deeper, resonant. Not high-pitched. The one that bothered Surge was a frequency so high most humans couldn't hear it—the alarm that had gone off in Djibouti when his littermate Tsunami died after exposure to toxic gas on her mission.

Delaney scratched behind Surge's ears as the flood of preteens and teens clambered up the bleachers. The noise level rose as they mingled and teased and chased and called out for each other. The kids shifted around, each trying to get the best look at the working dog. Murmurs and whispers carried easily across the gym floor.

"Look at those eyes. Intense."

"All black—so pretty!"

"Did he kill anyone?"

"Can he smell drugs?"

Saving the answers to all those questions for later, Delaney appreciated the way Surge remained steady and focused, ready to work. Ready to deal with any issue, yet compliant enough to keep his black KONG in his mouth. She grinned. A few weeks ago, Surge would've been too panicked for a situation like this. And if they could pull this off, she could prove to Heath that she had counterconditioned the Mal well. She did regret not telling him about this, but she had been sure he'd reject her request.

Mr. Finch's black shoes squeaked as he approached slowly. "Good morning, Miss Thompson."

"Easy," she murmured to Surge, then smiled at the teacher who'd invited her to come. "Good morning. Thank you for letting us do a demonstration."

Surge looked up at her with those bright golden-brown eyes, KONG dangling from his mouth like an old stogie.

Again the bell rang, signaling the start of the class period.

"Okay, boy. Leave it." Surge dropped the KONG and readied himself, clearly detecting it was time to work.

Delaney pocketed the rubber toy. Movement pulled her attention to the bleachers, where a male student held something aloft.

Yelling "Victory," he yanked a string at the bottom.

Pop-pop-pop-pop!

Body tense, Surge snapped his snout shut, eyes trained on the boy even as the students applauded the chaos the party popper launched.

Whooping, the boy produced more poppers, passing them to his friends.

Surge let out a keening whine. Excited. Eager to work.

"Easy. Heel," Delaney said, patting her leg, which brought his black hide against her pant leg. She glanced around, anxious for Mr. Finch to take charge before this went south.

"Steven Eagen!" Mr. Finch pointed at the boy, then to the floor. "I am so sorry, Miss Thompson."

"Aw, come on, Mr. Finch." The youth climbed down the bleachers. "We won the football championship yesterday. We're celebrating!"

Finch motioned him out the door and confiscated the rest of the poppers.

"Ooh! You're in trouble," the others called.

With an unrepentant grin, Eagen hung his head and walked out.

Mr. Finch quickly texted. "Letting the principal know he's on his way," he muttered as he joined her at the front. "Are we still good for this exhibition, Miss Thompson?"

She looked over at Surge. Seated, keen eyes on the kids, and tongue dangling, he was calm. Man, he'd come a long way. "Yeah. Looks like we're good."

Mr. Finch introduced her as Surge watched over the crowd, the soft push of his muscular body against her leg. Delaney kept her posture relaxed, a cue this eighty-pound Malinois would no doubt mimic.

"They're all yours," Mr. Finch said as he took a seat on the second row.

She moved to the center of the gym and put Surge in a heel. "Hello. I am Delaney Thompson, an intern trainer with A Breed Apart ranch, and this is Surge L724, a six-year-old Belgian Malinois," she told the group. "He's a former military working dog—or MWD—who is now a contract working dog. That means a working dog. All work, all day. For every period of work and training, he earns this reward." She held up the roped KONG, and Surge's eyes snapped to the dangling toy. "As you can see, even when he wants to play, he is one hundred percent intense. That's what made him such an outstanding MWD. Keep that in mind—because to Surge, work is play. He loves it. So never approach or try to pet him unless I tell you it's okay, because he is trained to respond and protect me. Everyone understand?"

She waited until heads were nodding. "For our demonstration, Surge is going to search for shallow scent tins. I have ten of them."

A nod to Finch had him passing out the scent packs to the students. She played a short working-dog video as the tins made the rounds through the bleachers. At the end, she resumed her spot at the center with Surge. "Anyone ever smell birch before?"

One hand raised.

"What does it smell like?" Delaney asked.

The girl pursed her lips in thought. "I don't know . . . kind of like root beer, maybe." She shrugged. "My mom loves it."

Delaney laughed. "I have to agree with her and with your description. Some people say it's minty." She motioned to the side door that led to a bit of lawn. "I'm going to take Surge outside for a moment, and Mr. Finch will let those of you holding the scent tins hide them. Then Surge and I will return to let him do his job." She started to walk away but turned back. "And do me a favor? He has to earn his KONG time, so don't make it easy for him, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused.

She headed out to the grassy area. After he did his business, she let him sniff around for a couple minutes, played tug with him. She turned and put him in a sit, then waited for his eyes to meet hers. "Let's show Heath we can do this." When his tail wagged, Delaney ruffled his ears.

The door opened and Finch nodded. "We're ready."

"Okay, Surge," she said with a breath for courage. "Time to work."

His pace slowed to a drag as they returned to the gym, and she fought the clench in her gut. Heath's admonishment to her over the last eight weeks as he'd begrudgingly allowed her to continue counterconditioning Surge rang in her head . Emotion travels down lead.

She grinned, stood, and signaled a jump—his favorite trick. He leaped into her arms. "Are you ready? Are you ready?"

Surge gave her a sloppy kiss across her face and jumped back to the ground, his tail practically causing a breeze.

"Let's do it." She pulled the door open, and the roar of the kids smacked her. They sure had ratcheted while they were waiting. She could handle it. So could Surge.

This was going to be fun.

She ruffled his ears again, then slipped her hand around his collar, a move that sent anticipation through his muscular body, making his black fur bristle. "Surge, seek!"

Lunging ahead, Surge dropped his nose to the ground, trotted to the right, hauling in scents. He turned his head side to side. At the trash can, he got a hit. Planted himself in front of it.

"Good boy!" Amid the kids' applause, she got him back to work looking for the others. When he'd found them all, she'd give him some KONG time. He quickly located two more, and she felt exultant. She'd known he could do it—she could do it!

Amid the squeal of someone's phone—earning a quick remonstration from Mr. Finch—Surge's behavior shifted. He wasn't as eager.

Stomach tight, Delaney clicked her tongue, diverting him to the wall, trailing her hand along a rack of basketballs. Redirecting and guiding him.

When he followed and sniffed the trail, she felt the knot in her stomach loosen. It'd worked.

For two seconds.

Then it happened again. This time, he went lower . . . then down, as if trying to sink into the floor. She pulled out his KONG. God, please. Again pointing, again clicking her tongue, she tried to inspire him.

No response. Not even to the KONG.

Great. Middle school was the perfect place for embarrassment, right?

His ears flattened back against his head. His panting ramped up to sixty miles an hour.

Stressed. Overwhelmed.

Just like before. Delaney winced, feeling her own gallons of stress and being overwhelmed, especially when he pressed his belly to the floor and sank his snout onto his paws.

He was done.

"Is he scared?" someone asked.

"No, dummy, he's tired," another kid scoffed.

"You're right," Delaney said, her face hot, "that does happen, even to the toughest dogs. Or they have a bad day." She wanted to shake some confidence into Surge, but it wasn't his fault. It must have been the frequency from that crazy phone. "Anyone ever have a bad day?" she asked, breathing a little easier when several hands went up. "Well, so can even the most hard-hitting working dogs like Surge."

Nods around from the kids.

To see him shut down killed her.

Her brain scrambled through ideas, what might have triggered him. It had to have been that phone that made the particular sound that triggered Surge. After all that progress, maybe he hadn't been ready. Her fault.

But the one thing she knew right now was that she had to get him out of here.

* * *

HILL COUNTRY, TEXAS

Three things kept Garrett rooted in this middle-of-nowhere area: wide open spaces, no military, and sweet-tang barbecue.

He whipped his F150 into the restaurant parking lot. His mouth watered, and his stomach grumbled as he thought about the spicy, smoky flavor of their pulled pork and brisket. The Foxes had owned this place in the Blanco County for four generations. The only legit barbecue in the world as far as he was concerned. He'd globe-hopped enough to vouch for that.

He opened the restaurant door and just stood there, soaking in the rich smokiness of the mesquite they used to slow-cook the meat. Loud country music reverberated against his chest, making conversation almost impossible.

Perfect.

Add to that the fundraiser the Foxes held every year to benefit the Navy SEAL Foundation—they gave the foundation all their profits from that day—a guy started to feel like God actually existed. Especially when he could stuff his gut with barbecue while supporting his SEAL brothers.

"Hey, Boss!"

Stunned at that voice, Garrett stilled. Turned. He barked a disbelieving laugh at who stood there with a wide smile and big hands propped on his hips. "Zim! What on earth?" He pulled the guy into a shoulder hug.

"Wow. Looks like freelance contractor biceps aren't anywhere as big as Navy SEAL biceps!" He flexed.

"Maybe. But my perfectly trimmed beard is ten times cooler than your baby face."

Zim rubbed proudly at his hair-free cheeks.

"What're you doing here? Haven't seen you since . . ." Garrett swallowed at the memory.

"Yeah." The same heaviness hit Zim's face. "It's been too long, Boss."

"I'm not your boss anymore, remember?" He punched Zim's shoulder.

He rubbed his shoulder like he'd been hurt. "You'll always be ‘Boss' to me."

Pulling out his wallet, Garrett shook his head.

Zim pointed at the cashier as they ambled over to order. "I already ate, but yours is on me tonight."

"Nothin' doing."

"Hey." Zim jutted his jaw. "You saved my life. It's the least I can do."

The reminder silenced Garrett's argument. With a smile at the hostess, he ordered the pulled pork sandwich basket from the menu. "With fries and a Dr. Pepper. And banana pudding." It was fundraising day, after all. As she rang it up and loaded a tray, he leaned on the counter and eyeballed his buddy. "You saved my behind too. But I won't argue a free meal." He stuffed his wallet back in his pocket.

"Good. Because I got your six. Always."

"It's what we do." Garrett took the tray of food and soda. "What're you doing in Hill Country?"

"Visiting my great-grandpa. We don't expect too many more summers with him. He has some of the best Iwo Jima stories. He was craving some Fox's brisket, so I came." Zim grinned. "A friend of mine told me you live here, so I hoped you'd drop in on the first day of the fundraiser. You were always complaining there was no good barbecue around Coronado."

"Ain't that the truth." Garrett lifted his tray of food and thanked Zim for it. "Tell your great-grandfather ‘hey' from your Navy brother, okay?"

"He'll love that."

Garrett looked for a place to sit.

"Uh, Boss, have some time to chat?"

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Do I get to eat first?"

Zim lifted his palms in surrender. "I'd never get between you and your barbecue."

"You always were the smart one." Garrett stopped at a trough that served as the condiment station.

"I was glad to hear you still have my back."

Garrett piled pickles and onions on his pulled pork and peered sidelong at his buddy. "That sounds like a setup if I ever heard one."

"We need help." Zim motioned him toward the back of the restaurant.

We? Garrett had a bad feeling about this, but he trailed his buddy. They'd negotiated some tables when his gaze collided with a man sitting in a booth. Unmistakable long, crooked nose. Son of a . . . He stopped short. "Caldwell."

Lounging like he had all day and owned the place—that alone was enough to tick Garrett off—the CIA operative gave a cockeyed nod. "Walker."

Garrett glared at Zim. "What is this?"

Caldwell stood and extended his hand. "Nice to see you." The man's narrow, arrogant face made him look like he was in pain.

Not trusting himself to play nice, Garrett clenched his jaw and declined the handshake. Reminded himself he was holding a tray of food and a soda. Which he badly wanted to shove in the guy's face.

"Walker, please." Caldwell motioned to the booth. "We need to talk."

"Boss—G-Garrett." The stammering betrayed Zim's nerves. He shifted his weight. "Remember the device we brought out of Djibouti after the . . ." His buddy's rushed words were almost inaudible.

Garrett dropped his tray on the table and shoved it over, then he slid onto the bench across from Caldwell. "What about it?"

Zim sat next to the spook. "Brass told us to give it up, but Caldwell and I kept digging. There was residue on that device?—"

"We tied it to another incident," Caldwell inserted quietly. "The Agency recovered a similar device in the Pakistani presidential building when the secretary of state was visiting last month. It had the same manmade lipids as the device from Djibouti. Those lipids?" He seemed way too giddy about this. "Only one terror cell uses them when they process their chemicals for transport."

"Sachaai is done," Garrett bit out, ready to walk. "Fahmi Ansari died setting off the toxic gas in Djibouti. Killed Reicher too. And Tsunami." He glowered. "Remember?"

"His son took over the cell," Zim said.

"Hakim Ansari?" Garrett's gut tightened.

Zim nodded. "Hakim's dad hated their ‘westernized' Pakistani president and America. Hakim triply so, he's so galvanized. HUMINT shows they still have a stash of chemicals that indicate the unique lipid."

"In Singapore, where Hakim relocated the cell." Caldwell's smug arrogance was resurfacing.

"What're are they doing in Singapore?"

"He likes the cell's ability to blend into the culture there."

"And Singapore is a leading hub for the chemical industry," Zim added.

"Jurong Island. Easy access," Caldwell said. "COMINT suggests they're planning to infect a food supply to bring into the US."

Okay, they had his attention now. Garrett pushed aside his food and drink. Wished he could do the same to these two thugs. He'd walked in here for barbecue, not mission talk.

"I've got COMINT on this, and they ferreted out info that Sachaai plans to hit America. Big plans," Caldwell continued. "They have an entire load of sulfamic acid and potassium cyanide—enough to wipe out half the population of the US."

"Which they use to make hydrogen cyanide," Zim reminded him.

And that's what'd happened in Djibouti. How Sam had died.

"But they're planning poison, not hydrogen cyanide gas now. We've learned their chemist is Tariq Sayyim." Zim clenched and unclenched his fists. "I'd like to get my hands on him. Besides the lipid, he has invented an oil spray that will prevent hydrogen cyanide from dissipating. So it's a liquid that will infect whatever food they put it on to send around the US. It'll kill hundreds of thousands of Americans, if not more."

Garrett wanted to be in Singapore now. He squeezed his eyes shut. He was no longer a SEAL. "This is the government's problem. Not mine. Task Alpha or Bravo to take care of it."

Shifting in his seat, Zim took a deep breath. "DOD shut Caldwell down, even with the intel. No mission will be sanctioned."

"Why?"

"‘False chatter' is the official answer," Caldwell said, his expression tight for the first time. "But I'm certain about my intel?—this source has never been wrong. I've confirmed it. The intel is inarguable."

Nope. Gaze locked with Caldwell's, Garrett shook his head. "But maybe not complete. Even good sources can withhold necessary info. Like when you didn't tell us the chemicals were weaponized in Djibouti? The intel you withheld that got Reicher and Tsunami killed?" He clenched his fist under the table. Better leave or he'd light into that man. Yet . . . the spook's unwavering intensity kept him seated.

Letting the new intel soak into his brain, Garrett reached for the Sriracha Smoke Sauce, slathered it on his food, then returned it to the metal rack on the table. "This intel of yours isn't actionable. Get more and the DOD will give in."

Caldwell dropped his head to his chest. Then he popped it up and leaned forward, looking into Garrett's eyes.

As if Garrett had missed something. Couldn't the guy just tell them, stop holding everything so close to the vest? "What? What's going on here? Do I need to shake the info out of you?"

Caldwell sighed, roughed a hand over his jaw. "What we have is actionable. But the one who shut us down at the DOD is compromised."

"You know this has to be addressed, Boss," Zim broke in quietly. "We've talked with Damocles?—"

"Chapel's team?" Garrett couldn't help but be impressed. Tyson Chapel was no cheap meat, and his team—Damocles—was revered across the industry. "What'd he say?" He nearly cursed himself, because now he was listening with more than half an ear.

Caldwell smirked. Knew he had him. "He wants it addressed, but they're tied up with a couple of other ops. When I asked for recs, he suggested you." He cocked his head. "When I said I'd already been considering you, he said to get it done, that we have their backing and funding."

Tyson Chapel recommended me? Garrett choked a little that the legend not only knew who he was but had an awareness of his skill level . . . Wait. This . . . this didn't make sense. He reached for his Dr. Pepper and took a swig, then thudded it back on the table. "Why? Tell me why me? After all this time?"

"Like I said, we need you."

"Didn't answer my question." Garrett hated this guy. "There are hundreds of operators out there who can do what I can do." He scratched his beard. "And what I can't figure is why Chapel would give you the time of day." Yet, he had . . . So, what had Tyson seen that Garrett was missing?

A heavy, awkward silence settled between them before Caldwell finally huffed. "Look, you don't have to like me?—"

"Good."

"—but I think we can both agree this needs to be done." His pocked face reddened. Anger? Irritation? "As for why Damocles? Because Chapel is the best at what he does, and this mission demands that skillset. Just like we need yours."

"My skills only go so far. Greasing me won't make me sign on."

"I told him about what happened in Burma." Caldwell cleared his throat. "Damocles has identified one of the Sachaai's low-level guys in Singapore that we can buy a sample from. Chapel suggested you go in undercover as a buyer, get the sample, and then track him to the stash of chemicals."

Garrett couldn't help but roll the idea through his head. "Track him? And what—end up sniffing that stuff again and dying like Samwise and Tsunami? I'd go if you had positive confirmation that the chems weren't mixed, but if I lost him—I can't track him. You'd need a specialized search dog who can find that ‘unique lipid.'" He stabbed a finger at the spook. "Your words. And since you told me in Burma that Tsunami was the only dog with that training—and oops, now she's dead thanks to your, once again, bad intel—you are out of luck and this convo is over." He stood.

Caldwell smirked. "Tsunami wasn't the only one."

Stiffening, Garrett stared at the spook. "What?"

"Tsunami wasn't the only dog trained to rout the Sachaai lipid," he said with way too much calm and smugness. "There's another. He's here, about an hour away at a ranch."

Garrett cursed himself—he'd walked right into that one. "A Breed Apart."

"That's it." Caldwell spoke quietly, too confident he'd ensnared them in this op. "Chapel put in a call to the ranch's COO, Heath Daniels."

"Yeah," Zim said. "I've seen him—a gorgeous black Belgian Malinois named Surge."

Surge. Wait . . . Garrett remembered Sam showing him a picture of Tsunami's littermate. But what were the chances this one had been trained in scenting the same lipid? The memory of watching Tsunami collapse beneath the gas hit him hard. "Hold up." He swallowed. "That chemical killed Tsunami. What's to stop it from killing Surge?"

Zim reached into his pocket, pulled out two clear two-inch plastic medical vials. He glanced over at the spook, then back at Garrett. "Caldwell, um, visited a Sachaai building on Jurong Island and stole—er, found a few oral vaccine medicine vials. Like these. Twist-off lids. I tested Caldwell's find, positive for potassium cyanide and sulfamic acid. Also processed with Tariq's lipid." He held his hands apart, each holding empty plastic tubes. "The vials aren't harmful until"—he smacked them together—"they're mixed." His hands burst apart, and he let the vials fall into his lap.

Garrett squinted. "Or it becomes toxic gas. Like in Djibouti."

Zim shook his head, returning the tubes to his pocket. "I hacked into Sachaai messaging?—"

Caldwell cleared his throat loudly.

Zim bit his lip. "Well, anyway, they want to put poison in our food supply—kill more people at the same time. And Surge is an MWD. Like Tsunami, he won't eat anything not given to him by a team member."

"What do they want to do with it?" Garrett asked.

"That, we're not one hundred percent on yet," Zim said with another shrug. "We know they're developing it into a liquid spray, but whether they'll put it on a food source being imported or ship it here for us . . . is unknown."

"And not our problem," Caldwell asserted. "Because we're going to stop them before they can do anything with it." He leaned forward. "Daniels has agreed to contract Surge to us for this op. He and Thompson are ready for action."

Garrett took a deep breath, feeling like he'd been caught in a volatile undertow. He owed Zim a listen. "So Sachaai is threatening a major chemical weapon attack on the US. We have to intercept those chemicals well before they get here . . ." Something. . . wasn't quite right. What was he missing? He glared at the operative. How had he convinced Chapel to underwrite this mission? No paramilitary firm had unlimited funds, so what had he bought this favor with? "Is there more?"

The man held his gaze for several seconds. "Isn't there always?"

Zim shifted in his seat. "Okay, look—Caldwell is going. Chapel likes the efficacy of his source on this."

Not him. Caldwell, of course, was holding something back. Same as in Burma and Djibouti. Why on earth would he trust the man a third time? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. A third time?

"I'm out." Throwing a glance at the food he no longer had an appetite for, Garrett stood and dropped a ten on the table for a tip. "Thanks for lunch, Zim. See you the next time you're in Hill Country."

Zim shoved to his feet, blocking his exit.

Garrett scuffed his beard. "Don't waste your breath, man. It's not happening." He let the growl fill his words.

His buddy held up his hands. "Damocles wants justice for Reicher—Sam. His brother is one of theirs."

Garrett frowned, digging through his memory. "Kane," he realized. "Kane Reicher is with them?"

"That's right," Zim continued. "Kane remembers you were his brother's buddy. It's why they suggested you." The short, wiry guy glanced at the spook, then back at Garrett. "We all feel you're the one with the fire to stop this."

So Kane wanted justice for Samwise. As do I.

But this still involved Caldwell.

Garrett tilted his head toward Mr. CIA. "No."

Zim's face fell. "Come on, Boss."

"I'm not going to work with someone who withholds intel and throws their own under the bus, lets innocents die."

"Why?" said Caldwell from behind him.

Garrett turned. "Burma. Djibouti."

"I told you my Burma HUMINT was simply wrong. Didn't know that the sniper chasing you was killing civilians."

"And people died because you didn't do your due diligence, nor did you inform me as the op continued. If it hadn't been for Zim, I wouldn't be standing here. More would've died." He leaned into Caldwell's face. "Oh, wait. They did—in Djibouti! Sam and Tsunami!"

"I told you I had no way of knowing the chemist had weaponized it."

"You are the intelligence officer. That means you get the intelligence before sending people out on some rushed job to die." Garrett stepped forward, ramming his shoulder into Caldwell's. "I'm done with you."

"You'd really let innocents die, just so you don't have to work with him?" Zim's voice hardened. "This isn't you, man. You're better than this." He edged in and lowered his voice. "Have you ever thought maybe Caldwell is trying to make things right after Djibouti?"

"Never crossed my mind," Garrett snarled. He headed toward the front door.

Zim paced. "At Reicher's funeral, you vowed to make those responsible pay for what happened." He swiveled around in front of him "This is it, Boss. This is your chance to make it right. To make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else."

Definitely wanted to pull Hakim Ansari's kidneys out through his mouth. Maybe if Garrett focused on that, not on the spook . . . Jaw tight, he stared out into the bright Texas afternoon. "When's it happening?"

Zim pulled in a quick breath of hope. "Intel suggests they plan to have the poison on American streets a week from Friday?—the six-month anniversary of the death of Hakim's father."

Gripping the security bar of the door, Garrett worked through this very bad idea.

A voice cleared from behind—Caldwell. "My source says the chemicals are leaving Singapore Wednesday. We have to stop them before that."

Wednesday. A week.

Garrett slid his gaze to Caldwell, who had the good sense to look contrite, if not a little hardened. Curse it all. If he took Caldwell out of the equation, he could do this. There was a reason he'd become a SEAL—to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. Even against men like Caldwell. Not acting now would lower him to the spook's level.

He had a chance to stop them. To stop the men responsible for Reicher and Tsunami and save countless other lives.

"Fine." He drove a hard glare to the spook. "But my rules, my way."