Hawk wanted to ponder the assassin’s origin and figure out who’d sent him. After all, he appeared to be the kind of contract killer neither the CIA nor The Chamber would hire. But Hawk didn’t have time to get bogged down in such a mystery. Karif Fazil was in the next room—and he had a date with a bullet from Hawk’s gun.
CHAPTER 2
Three weeks earlier
Washington, D.C.
HARRY BOZEMAN FINGER COMBED his thinning hair and straightened his tie before studying his teeth in his rearview mirror. He checked his sleeves and brushed off a few stray pieces of lint. Cracking the window, he ignited a cigarette and took a long drag. And with the push of a button, his black BMW Alpina B7 roared to life.
In a short span of time, Bozeman had gone from a presumed dead CIA station chief to having conversations with the most powerful man in the world. And it was one of these conversations that led President Michaels to persuade Bozeman to come out of the shadows. They concocted a harrowing rescue tale and relayed it to the press through the President’s spokesperson, who then shared that Bozeman would be taking a position with Hillman & Todd, a private security firm with a consulting contract with the government. Bozeman was assigned to work with the White House administration on certain security issues.
Bozeman had always dreamed of moments like this—on his way to meet the president and discuss weighty matters—even though it had happened through a most unusual turn of events. But he wasn’t about to complain. The end game was most important; it always was to Bozeman.
He turned the radio on and tuned into a local news talk show program that usually consisted of people on opposite ends of the political spectrum yelling at each other. Bozeman listened only for amusement, chuckling as the two rivals bickered over policies and past records.
If they only knew none of it mattered. It’s all there just to distract you from what’s really going on in your government.
Bozeman awoke to this reality years ago when he first discovered what was happening by stumbling into a meeting. The former CIA station chief in Rome used to believe his job had meaning, that mapping out terrorist activities and putting together ops to arrest or eliminate these emboldened anarchists mattered. But the constant whack-a-mole approach to addressing terrorism wasn’t working. Then he learned that the powerful people in charge didn’t care if such groups were blown into oblivion. Instead, they served a purpose, forming a vital cog in the wheel of holding on to power. And that’s when Bozeman realized he’d spend the rest of his time on earth fighting to get rich rather than fighting a battle that was designed to be endless, no matter how noble the cause appeared to the rest of the world.
Since exiting the CIA by faking his own death years ago, Bozeman reinvented himself and embraced his new role, one only a creative entrepreneur could design. He bridged several power players together who shared common goals and connected them all loosely to The Chamber. Sometimes even certain people at the CIA who knew his secret contacted him when the agency wanted a particular outcome but didn’t want its name ever affiliated with the result. When a particular objective aligned with several of his contractors, he didn’t hesitate to grab double or triple portions from the overflowing money pots.
It was clear that Brady Hawk was one of those coalescing aims.
Traffic crawled along as Bozeman made his way toward the White House. He suspended his thoughts for a few moments as the two blathering political foes entered into a robust debate about the United States’ relations with Saudi Arabia.
“It’s time to cut bait with them, Fred,” one of the commentators said. “Look at all the abuse of human rights that occur over there. Now, they’re sabre rattling. We don’t need them.”
“I know some people, like you, Al, think that kowtowing to the Prince’s demand shows weakness, but we can’t let this spat fester for the sake of our ability to battle terrorism in the Middle East. We don’t have many allies left in that godforsaken part of the world, and drawing a line in the proverbial sand with one of our best allies is bad politics and shortsighted.”
Bozeman chuckled and shook his head.
It doesn’t even really matter.
However, Bozeman knew it mattered in the court of public opinion, which was where President Michaels had been flagging lately. His approval ratings had dipped to an all-time low since he’d taken office, and there seemed to be no bottom in sight. Even the hardline party loyalists had already begun to turn on Michaels.
Bozeman parked and strode toward the checkpoint, where he presented his credentials to a guard who scrutinized the documents for a few seconds longer than anyone else had. After his gaze bounced between the identification badge and Bozeman’s face, the guard waved him in and directed him toward the metal detector. Bozeman breezed through without incident and let the head of the secret service know that he’d arrived.
While Bozeman avoided roaming the halls of the West Wing, he still needed to go through some semblance of protocol to avoid drawing too much attention for his presence. No one other than secret service members would ever see him meet with President Michaels, and that’s how it had to be. If others noted Bozeman and Michaels’s meetings and knew who the former CIA Rome station chief was, whispers might float around Washington that Michaels was usurping CIA authority or worse—using the CIA for a more clandestine agenda.
Bozeman paced around the room as he waited for Michaels. After a five-minute delay, Michaels strode into the room. He offered his hand and flashed his 60-watt smile, the same one that helped him get elected over the dour disposition of the candidate he’d defeated.
“Good to see you, Harry,” President Michaels said, clamping down on Bozeman’s hand and
