Page 6 of Edge of Honor

Though it seemed like everything was happening in slow motion, it all took place in a matter of seconds.

The killer had grabbed the Ambassador by her hair, yanked her to her feet, and had his gun to her temple, using her as a human shield.

When thekrumkakeiron hit a shelf loaded with pots and pans, the man took his pistol off the Ambassador and fired multiple rounds toward the back of the kitchen. It wasn’t a flash-bang, but it had done a good enough job.

There was only one shot available to Harvath, and as dangerous as it was, he took it.

Pressing his trigger, there was acrackwhen the round sizzling out of his weapon broke the sound barrier and caught the killer right between the eyes as he began to turn back around.

His head snapped backward as blood, bone, and pieces of brain matter covered the kitchen wall behind him.

Getting to his feet, Harvath peeled off his jacket, folded it into a makeshift pressure bandage, and, kneeling, applied it to the chef’s chest.

The Ambassador joined him and was about to say something when two new Norwegian security agents burst into the kitchen and, with their weapons pointed at him, yelled for Harvath to put his hands in the air.

CHAPTER 4

ROCKCREEKPARK

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Brendan Rogers knew he was being followed. He had clocked the two men behind him earlier in the day while out running errands.

They both appeared to be in their late thirties to early forties, fit, and around six feet tall. Each had short, dark hair, and was clean-shaven. They could have been ex–service members who, just like him, were also training for D.C.’s popular Marine Corps Marathon, but that wasn’t the vibe Rogers was getting. There was a menacing intensity to these two men—like a pair of wolves, stalking him.

Though he had long held to the maxim thatwhen in doubt, there is no doubt, he needed to be sure. Up ahead, the paved trail he was on intersected with a dirt bridle path, which pushed deeper into the woods. That’s where he would get his confirmation. Picking up the pace, Rogers headed for it.

When he reached the bridle path, he hooked a left and then broke into a sprint. If these guys really were after him, they were going to have to catch him.

The trail led uphill, cutting into his speed and causing his legs to burn. His only consolation was that if he was being chased, his pursuers were being slowed as well.

In fifty yards he came to a switchback and reduced his pace, but only enough to not lose control and wipe out. Racing forward, he shot a quick glance downhill to his right. Both of the men were sprinting after him and closing the distance. The situation was now confirmed.

Rogers didn’t need to ask why they were after him. He already knew. He also knew what would happen if he stopped running. Those two men were going to kill him.

With his heart pounding so hard that it set off a warning on his smart watch, he heaved for breath and kept moving as fast as he could. He needed to figure out how to shake these two.

Racking his brain, he tried to recall the limited training he had been given.Change your appearance. Lose yourself in a crowd. Enter a building through one door and quickly exit via another.

That was all well and good in the middle of a large city or some crowded Middle Eastern souk, but this was a remote trail on a Monday evening in Rock Creek Park. The bottom line was that Rogers hadn’t been trained for this kind of thing.

He was a hard-charging former officer in the Navy JAG (Judge Advocate General) Corps who had wound up as the Special Presidential Envoy for Hostage Affairs, or SPEHA for short—a position the press often referred to as the “Hostage Czar.”

During his tenure, he had secured the release of a number of Americans who had been kidnapped or otherwise unjustly detained abroad. He was a highly intelligent, highly skilled negotiator who was as comfortable flattering his counterparts as he was threatening them—and had done whatever it took to win.

And when he had won, those wins had made big, international headlines. But Rogers had never felt comfortable in the media spotlight. He had preferred to remain in the background, allowing the President to receive all the credit. His satisfaction came from getting American hostages home and seeing them reunited with their families.

It was that humility and sense of duty that had caught the attention of the White House. With his knowledge of geopolitics and extensive experience dealing with some of the planet’s nastiest actors, he became the President’s choice to replace the outgoing National Security Advisor.

Rogers accepted and remained in the position just over a year, until the President’s term came to a close.

On Inauguration Day, as was the custom, he was the last to leave the White House, handing over the keys to the new, incoming administration and its own National Security Advisor.

That was six months ago.

Since then, two of his colleagues—the former secretary of state and chairman of the Joint Chiefs—had turned up dead.

One had been ruled an accident. The other’s death had been attributed to “natural” causes.

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