FIVE

Fort Bragg—Cumberland County, North Carolina

“HOLY HORSESHIT!” ROOK said as he handed Knight a jack of spades. “That’s five in a row! You better not be cheating.”

Knight flashed a cocky smile and leaned back in his chair. The smile, in combination with his chiseled jaw and the perfectly smooth, never-been-shaved tan skin of his cheeks, not only won over many women, but it also really pissed off Rook. It wasn’t that Rook was unlucky with women; he just wasn’t a “pretty Korean boy” like Knight. “I would never cheat. Knights are honest and true.”

This got a chuckle from King, Queen, and Bishop, who were sitting around the card table, holding their cards secretively. Each player, except Rook, had a small pile of cards laying facedown on the table in front of them.

“Honest and true, my ass,” Rook said. “I just haven’t figured out how you do it yet. And when I do . . .” Rook held out his fist. “I’m going to jam this right up—”

“Okay, okay, enough with the fantasizing, little man,” Queen said. In the field, Queen could be a demon, but at home she often found herself being the peacemaker. It wasn’t that the guys didn’t get along, but they were like brothers . . . and sometimes brothers fight. “You’re up.”

Rook sighed and looked at his cards. His instincts told him to look for pairs, wilds, and flushes, but they weren’t playing poker. In their first year together, the team found poker to be a frustrating game, mostly because King couldn’t be beat. He had a way of reading people’s faces and intuiting how good their hand was. After the team collectively lost twenty-three hundred dollars to King in a single game, Rook, his face beet red with anger, had taken the chips, doused them in gasoline, and lit them on fire, melting them down into a red, white, and blue blob of singed plastic. After that, they agreed to play something less competitive . . . something that was more a game of chance than skill. But in the past month, to Rook’s ever-increasing frustration, Knight never lost. Though no money was at stake, it was worse than King’s poker run because it was supposed to be a game of chance. But somehow, Knight had figured out a system . . . at least when it came to Rook, who was always the first person out.

Rook focused on his three remaining cards. Ace of hearts. Ten of diamonds. Three of spades. He had to pick one.

“Knight. Ten of hearts,” Rook said. “Fork it over.”

Knight glanced at his cards, then slowly shuffled through them. “Nope . . . nope . . . nope . . . Sorry, big guy. No can do.”

Rook raised his eyebrows as his face turned a light shade of pink. He stroked his two-inch-long blond goatee. “Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining, Knight.”

“Cats and dogs.”

“Damnit.”

“Oh, and Rook? Go fish.”

Rook took a card from the center pile while muttering obscenities. Then he smiled. Ten of hearts. “Ha!” He slapped the cards on the table, announcing his first pair. “Fish this, Knight.”

Knight laughed. “That makes no sense.”

“Hey, Rook,” King said, trying to contain a smile.

Rook looked at King, who was dressed in his usual uniform, blue jeans and a black Elvis T-shirt. What Rook saw in King’s orange-brown eyes was something few people ever got to see—humor. And it made him nervous.

“Ace of hearts,” King said.

Rook handed him the card, his face cast with suspicion. “Are you two working together?”

“No,” King said, leaning back so that his curly moplike hair fell out of his face and revealed his widening smile. “I just figured out Knight’s secret.”

Knight’s and Rook’s eyes both went wide.

“Behind you,” King said, pointing to the back wall of the rec room, twenty feet back, where a month ago Knight had installed a small mirror next to the ceiling-mounted television. Rook saw the mirror and, though it was far away, had no doubt that Knight’s eagle eyes could see his cards across the distance.

Men from other units who had been watching TV, playing pool, or reading books stopped and turned to watch as Rook stood up, towering over Knight like a Swiss giant, and shouted, “You little bitch.”

Knight hopped out of his seat as Rook came around the table for him. He began whipping his cards at Rook, biffing him in the forehead with each shot. As Knight laughed hysterically, he stumbled over King’s extended foot. This was all the time Rook needed to catch Knight by his silk button-up shirt.

Knight suddenly stood still and stopped laughing. “Don’t mess with my shirt, Rook.”

Rook began hocking up a wad of spit, snorting loudly with his nose for good measure.

“Rook . . .”

Even the normally silent Bishop was laughing. This confrontation had been brewing for a month and the three members of the Chess Team not involved were enjoying every minute of it. It was the beginning of what was to be a nice week of R & R, kicked off the following day by the barbeque at Camp David, no less. They were scheduled to leave that night and their bags were packed. Of course, they might be delayed pending any injuries. Rook was stronger and bigger, but Knight was fast and a skilled fighter . . . and apparently, had luck on his side.

“King!” The voice was commanding. Urgent. Which wasn’t unusual for the one-star Brigadier General Keasling, but the person accompanying him into the lounge was very unusual.

Not only was Queen the only female Delta operator, she was the only woman in all of the Special Forces units at Fort Bragg. With a population topping twenty-nine thousand, there were plenty of other women on base, but they didn’t enter the barracks very often, and they certainly weren’t seen in the company of the short, grisly faced general now storming toward King. But this one stuck to the general’s side like a prom date, and she looked, in every way, to be Queen’s opposite. Power suit. High heels. Stiff.

“The rest of you, clear this room, now!” Keasling yelled. Thirty seconds later, the rec room was emptied except for the five Delta operators, the general, and the woman, who was now fidgeting nervously.

King stood and greeted the perfectly uniformed general with a casual salute, which garnered a strange look from the woman. “General, what can I do for you?” King said. “As you can see, we were in the middle of something.” King motioned to Rook, who was still holding on to Knight’s shirt, a phlegm wad in his mouth.

“You’re shipping out in two hours,” Keasling said.

King squinted, assuming there was a miscommunication. “Actually, we’re not heading out until tonight.”

“Not anymore you’re not.”

King crossed his arms over Elvis’s face. “General, pardon me for being a dick, but unless your trip involves a barbeque with the commander-in-chief, you’re going to have to find—”

A large hand came to rest on King’s shoulder. It was Bishop. His next words were the first he’d spoken all day, and they stopped King in his tracks. “Jack, something’s wrong. Listen to him.”

King turned to Keasling. “What is it?”

“The president died yesterday,” Keasling said matter-of-factly.

Rook let go of Knight and all five faces around the table fell. King’s mind raced. If the president was dead, and the government’s reaction was to mobilize his crew, that meant only one thing: the President had been assassinated. With that assumption in mind, he had only one question left. “Who’s the target?”