Viral

walking—sideways, facing west—Jason and Nadra had to be near the western entrance to this courtyard.

The man stopped and fired once as they came even with the entrance arch, the 9mm explosion thundering in Charlie’s ears. Another armored vehicle was parked just beyond the archway, he saw. A small transport carrier, a two-man armored VAB, with a roof-mounted machine-gun turret. The shot smashed into the front of the transport vehicle, caroming off the Kevlar surface.

Then Charlie noticed the thin trail of exhaust rising from the left rear side of the VAB. Engine running. It must be a vehicle Wells or Nadra had captured. They were inside, trying to figure how to take out his captor without harming Mallory.

The man kept moving, maneuvering him in tiny steps across the courtyard. A commander of some sort, who had just lost dozens of his troops, Mallory guessed. One of Hassan’s commanders. Charlie felt the man’s sweaty arms slide against his, the gun barrel pressing his temple.

When the gunman reached the side door of the vehicle, he pivoted Charlie slightly, so they were facing the armored car, keeping the weapon on Charlie’s head. He knew that if he made any sudden movement, the man would fire a bullet through him. But he also knew that he’d probably do so, anyway.

He glanced back again, trying to recall why this man seemed familiar. The thick-boned set of his face, the cold eyes, the muscled forearms. And then Charlie glimpsed something else: another figure, moving in a tight, intent loop behind them. Running in a crouch. Charlie twisted his head toward the scout car, so that his captor would look that way, too. Another step. He heard a sharp exhalation of breath and looked. And that was when he saw it happen: the man’s head exploding from the rear, pink mist flying off the back of his skull.

The 9mm handgun fell and his captor went down, his eyes open, registering nothing.

Charles Mallory stepped back, staring at the dead man. And then at the man who had killed him.

Jon Mallory was standing five feet away, holding the gun at his side, looking at his brother. Showing no expression.

Charlie watched in disbelief.

Jon, breathing heavily, in and out, said nothing. Charlie reached out to grab his shoulders. He tried to give him a hug, something they’d never done before.

“Don’t,” Jon said, pushing him back. “My ribs.”

Charlie let go, his eyes tearing up. He put his hands on his brother’s arm and led him to cover behind the armored vehicle, waiting for whatever came next. A burst of gunfire, maybe. But there was only silence.

Then he heard another engine engage. Tires rolling over the dirt, toward them. Stopping. Door opening. Footsteps.

“It’s over,” Nadra said.

“How?” Charlie said, coming out. “Where are the others?”

“There aren’t any others. They’re all gone or dead. We scared off a couple dozen of them with the explosions. They retreated.”

Jon stood behind him, holding the gun.

Pumped up with adrenaline, Charlie could tell, but still expressionless.

“He just saved your life,” Nadra said.

“I know he did.” Charlie turned to Jon, feeling a wave of gratitude toward his little brother. Looking at someone he had never really seen before. He had underestimated Jon, he realized. Not just today. Always. All of his life. He hesitated, then gave him a weak hug.

“Careful,” Jon said.

Charlie stepped back, and for an instant his brother shared a smile with him. Then he heard another engine start. The old Ford station wagon. Jason Wells driving, pulling away from the wall, swinging around and braking.

Nadra got in front. Charlie followed Jon into the back. As they drove out the entrance of the prison compound, he saw the damage the explosives had done, destroying a gatehouse, blowing a twenty-foot-wide hole in the mud- brick wall. He saw the firing range and the obstacle course on the other side of the prison building. A terrorist training camp.

Jon blinked out the window, holding the gun on his lap, saying nothing.

IT WAS SEVEN and a half kilometers to the dirt trail where Joseph Chaplin was parked, waiting for him. That’s what Jon heard. But he had no clear sense of time or distance anymore. He was no longer hurting, but numb, still hearing the echo of the gunfire. His gunfire. Breathing the faint cordite scent of the gunpowder. Replaying the scene over and over.

“I’m sorry, Jonny,” he heard his brother say, in a quiet voice he barely recognized. “I didn’t expect this to happen. I wanted you to be a witness. I didn’t want you to be involved. Not like this. I’m sorry.”

Jon stared out the dust-stained side window as the woods flickered past.

“Why’d you do that?” Charlie said. “Why’d you risk your life like that?”

The questions seemed to reverberate, and disperse, not quite reaching him. He gripped the gun in his hand and felt empowered, felt he could do anything. Then he glanced at his brother and felt something else. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t have any idea. Because you were about to be killed, I guess. I don’t know. I just did.” Charlie looked older and more vulnerable. His face had softened slightly. He wasn’t as invincible as Jon remembered.

“I didn’t think about it for more than a second,” Jon said. “Once I started moving, it just happened. I saw that man was desperate. Totally focused on one thing. He wasn’t thinking about me. I wasn’t even on his radar. He was thinking about the scout car. And his own survival. That was all.”

Wells turned his head. “The boy should get a medal.”

“I could never do that again in a million years,” Jon said.

“First time you fired a gun?” Wells said.

Jon didn’t answer. No. Of course not. He was a reporter. Curious about many things. He had twice gone to the indoor shooting range in Rockville to find out what it felt like to fire a gun.

“It’s the first time I’ve fired at another person,” he said. Or killed one.

Ahead, then, he saw their destination: a small, dark car parked on the edge of the road. Joseph Chaplin.

“This time it’ll be different,” Charlie assured him. “Chaplin will take care of you. He’ll give you the rest of the details. And you can write the story. You can tell the story we’ve been working on together. Okay?”

Jon nodded, still gripping the gun. Still hearing the reverberation of the gunshot. Feeling the kick-back in his hand. Not wanting to let go.

JASON WELLS LET Charles Mallory off a couple of blocks west of the city center. It was 5:51. An hour and twenty minutes until dark. Maybe three hours before the planes went up, if they were going up. It was misty, felt like rain. But they couldn’t take anything for granted. Especially not after the night before.

Charlie smelled lamb and pig meat roasting on open spits as he walked back toward his room, his clothes reeking with the scents of death, dried body fluids on his hands and neck. He said a prayer in his head as he walked, thanking God that Jon was alive. He was anxious to just take a shower, to feel the evil wash off him and to be clean again. He wanted things to end now. But he knew that the real mission was still ahead.

As soon as he turned the doorknob to the apartment, though, he realized that something was wrong.

There was a wedge of artificial light on the carpeted floor of the room. Charlie knew that he hadn’t left any lights on when he’d gone out.

Someone was here.

Charlie pulled his 9mm handgun and swung it into the room. Found the target immediately. Sitting in the armchair. Dead center. Hands folded, empty. Charlie’s eyes went to the corners of the room. Then the doorways to the two adjacent rooms.

He felt a charge of adrenaline, knowing he didn’t have back-up anymore.

The man sitting in the chair watched him. Charlie couldn’t place him, but he recognized the face.

He pointed the gun, holding it with both hands—a move designed to rattle the person on the other end. But the man in the armchair didn’t blink.

“Who is it?” Mallory said, keeping the gun on him. Nothing. He studied the figure: a large, dark-complexioned