He was going to use one of their own ploys to take them down. He’d come to think of it as his own little covert operation. He would have to continue in his role as inspector general and look, with feigned zeal, for the leaker. He’d have to be careful, though, to not seem too eager. The operatives, while not bright, were at least instinctive. If he changed his behavior too much they would sense it, so he would have to do his job, while letting it be known that he had warned all of them this day would come. Adams couldn’t wait to see the looks on their faces when the news broke.

The car hit a pothole and began to slow. He looked up and was about to ask the driver why he was pulling over, when suddenly the driver’s-side rear door opened. A dark figure dripping with water glided into the vehicle and took a seat next him. Before Adams had the chance to figure out who it was, the door was closed and the car was moving again. Somewhere in a seemingly distant part of his brain he heard the automatic locks slam into place with an ominous thud. His mind was suddenly racing to understand what was going on. Why was this strange man in his car? Adams was about to ask him just that, when the man turned to face him.

The alcohol caused a slight delay in connecting the dots, but Adams knew instantly who he was looking at. The jet-black hair with a touch of gray at the temples, the olive skin and eyes so dark they looked like two pools of oil-they all belonged to none other than the CIA’s chief thug-Mitch Rapp. But what in the hell was Rapp doing in New York City, let alone his car?

“What?” Adams stammered. “What in the hell are you doing?”

“How was your dinner?” Rapp asked in a casual tone.

“My dinner? What in the hell are you doing? Get out of my car right now!” Panic crept into his voice as his inhibited brain began to comprehend the gravity of the situation.

“Easy, Glen,” Rapp spoke in a deep, calm voice. “You’re in no position to be handing out orders.”