Alex grabbed her glass of wine and drained it before answering. “It’s because they’re dead.”
Hawk leaned forward and placed his hands on top Alex’s. “I’m so sorry, Alex. I didn’t know.”
Alex’s lips quivered, her eyes watering. “It’s okay. It’s just that I hardly got to know them. They died when I was eight, though it wasn’t much of a life. Dad was an analyst for the CIA; mom was a double agent working for Russia. I think they only stayed married because it was smart for their careers.”
“And you?”
“I’m sure I was a mistake. No one working in intelligence who has aspirations of climbing the ladder wants to be burdened with children.”
“What happened to them?”
“Car accident on the beltway. The crash was so fiery that they had to cremate the bodies. Had to finish the job, I guess.”
“And you just accepted that?”
“I was eight years old. What else was I going to do? Demand to see dental records and compare them? But if either of them survived, I’m sure they would’ve contacted me by now.”
Hawk nodded knowingly.
Before the conversation continued, the waiter approached the table, carrying a platter with a plain white envelope on top.
“Mr. Hawk,” the waiter said, offering the letter. “This is for you.”
Hawk took the letter and thanked the waiter, who hustled away from the table. As Hawk carefully opened the letter, he stopped and looked at Alex.
“What do you think this is all about?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Love letter from an admirer?”
“Let’s hope not,” he said with a wink. He turned the card over and read it aloud.
Mr. Blunt requests your presence in a private room off the main dining area.
Alex furrowed her brow. “I don’t know about this. Wasn’t he specific on wanting to meet us out here on the veranda?”
“That’s what his text said.”
“So why the change of venue? It doesn’t make sense.”
Hawk picked up his glass of wine and stood. “Let’s go find out what’s going on.”
CHAPTER 3
J.D. BLUNT CLIPPED THE END of his cigar before he jammed it into his mouth. The sweet tobacco taste from the Nat Sherman 1930 Coronado Grande settled over his tongue. He took a long pull on his glass of scotch and glanced at his companion across the table before directing his gaze toward the doorway.
“You seem a little on edge,” the man said.
“For good reason,” Blunt said. “I’m anxious to get this over with. The fact that three key figures from Firestorm are going to be in the same room at the same time doesn’t make me feel at ease.”
“We can always cancel if—”
“No, let’s just keep it brief, all right?”
The man nodded.
A few moments later, the door opened and Hawk and Alex strode into the room.
“Senator,” Hawk said, offering his hand.
Blunt shook Hawk’s hand and then Alex’s. Remaining standing, Blunt gestured toward the other man.
“Hawk and Alex, I’d like for you to meet Senator Christopher Roland, a trusted friend of mine for over two decades and an ally for Firestorm.”
They all exchanged pleasantries before taking their seats around the small round table.
“Why the change in meeting place?” Hawk asked.
“You can never be too careful,” Blunt said. “My friend here has already noted just how nervous I’ve been about this meeting.”
“Let’s get it over with then,” Alex said.
“Yes, what’s the meaning of all this?” Hawk asked.
“Senator Roland?” Blunt said.
“Thank you, J.D.,” Roland said as he turned his attention to Hawk and Alex. “As you might be aware, Al Hasib is getting more aggressive and more brazen in their efforts to obtain powerful weapons. Their latest attempts include an effort to acquire a chemical weapon.”
“And they’ve never been able to do this before?” Hawk asked.
“Not yet, though Al Hasib has inquired about it with different arms dealers in the past.”
“What’s different about this time?” Alex asked.
Roland took a deep breath then exhaled. “This time, they’re probably going to get it unless we stop them—pardon me, unless you stop them.”
“What’s the mission?” Hawk asked.
“Hassan Garaar is a small-time weapons dealer in northeast Somalia,” Roland began. “Intel reports say that he’s gained enough methylphosphonyl difluoride to weaponize sarin gas.”
“How much gas are we talking about?” Alex asked.
“We’re not sure about how much yield he’d be able to produce from the shipment he received, but it’ll be enough to kill several thousand, maybe more, in the right setting in a large metropolitan area.”
“And how do you intend for us to stop this deal?” Hawk asked.
“In person, of course, at the docks in Berbera, Somalia. Garaar is tentatively scheduled to make an exchange with an operative from Al Hasib on Saturday night. We need you there to seize control of the weapon.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Alex asked. “We need more help than this.”
“Technically, you are the help,” Roland said. “We’ve got a guy on the ground in Berbera already.”
“Then why even use us at all?” Hawk asked.
“This guy can’t do it by himself, and we can’t risk bringing in even a small contingent of forces to Somalia. Since the 90s, every action we’ve taken there has had to be handled discreetly. I’m sure you understand.”
“I get it,” Hawk said. “I don’t want my body dragged through the streets if anything goes wrong.”
“Exactly. You two did so well stopping the threat in Washington that I thought you’d be perfect for this task. And quite frankly, since time is of the essence, I don’t have anyone else I can turn to.”
“We’re your last hope?” Alex asked as she leaned forward.
“You may be the last hope for thousands of unsuspecting Americans, too,” Roland said. “I feel far better about stopping this threat before it has time to take shape than trying to eliminate it while some Al Hasib agent runs around New York City with enough sarin gas to wipe out a crowd at Yankee Stadium.”
“You in, Alex?” Hawk asked. “You know I need you on this.”
She let out a long breath. “I’m in on one condition. I need to know who we’ll
