Executive Power

That scene had stayed with Rapp all these years. He was only twenty-three at the time. Twelve of the calmest, coolest bad asses he'd ever met climbed onto two Black Hawk helicopters and went out and performed their jobs to absolute perfection. It was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

Despite his natural preference for operational security, Rapp couldn't help but feel disappointed in the President. He'd thought better of the man. Rapp was starting to wonder if Robert Hayes was losing his determination in the battle against terrorism. Up until now, Hayes's commitment had been unwavering. Why he'd now decided to get gun-shy was a mystery.

When Rapp had gone into the Oval Office this morning he'd honestly thought the President wouldn't need more than two seconds to sign on. When Rapp got back to Washington he'd make it a point to talk to Ke

Ke

With all this fresh on his mind Rapp had put the wheels in motion the moment he left the White House. His first call had been to the SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation, out of Baltimore, where he spoke to an individual who he'd worked with many times before. Since they were talking on an unsecured line the conversation had been brief and cryptic, but enough information was passed along that the man on the other end could begin to assemble his team and prepare to leave on very short notice.

The rest of the drive back to Langley was spent talking to his new bride. In her mind, the day they got married was the day her husband was to retire from field operations. And Rapp, at least, when they got engaged, thought so too.

The problem was, between the engagement and the wedding, he'd been forced to sit through an endless succession of meetings where little was accomplished. He was quick to come to the realization that retiring from the field might not be as easy as he thought. Simply holding down an office job was never going to cut it. He knew it and she knew it, but they were both in agreement that the really dangerous operations were out of the picture.

Rapp saw himself taking a very active role in pla

He might not be the man pulling the trigger anymore, but he sure as hell wasn't going to sit in his cushy office in Virginia doling out orders from thousands of miles away. There was a reason why military commanders favored the opinions of on-site commanders, and that was why Rapp would be ru

A

There was little doubt, however, that if A

Something told him he wasn't being totally honest with himself, but at present he wasn't willing to explore it much further. Right now he had the calm sense of clarity he always felt before a mission. Like any predator, he was comfortable with only brief periods of inaction.

He never felt more alive than when he was moving forward with a plan. His intellect came to life, he saw things with a heightened sense of awareness. Possibilities opened up before his mind, with paths to take, and options to choose from while the entire time he subconsciously calculated the odds for success and set the information aside.

There was something else, though. Something he'd never discussed with anyone, not even Ke

At first he had been embarrassed by these feelings, uncomfortable with the knowledge that he took pleasure in something so brutal. But with time and maturity he had grown comfortable with the knowledge that he was killing men who had made a conscious choice to do harm. Moro was a traitor of his own volition, and when you plowed through all the political horse shit, the Anderson family had been minding their own business, breaking no laws, when they were snatched from their seaside resort. They were noncombatants in a war that had nothing to do with them.

Moro had decided to climb into bed with the enemy and because of him the Andersons were still held hostage and two U.S. commandos were now dead. Rapp knew that just pla

Rapp's thoughts of blood lust were interrupted by a presence hovering over his shoulder. Reaching up he closed his laptop and turned to see who it was.

Special Agent Skip McMahon of the FBI placed one of his forearms on the top of the seat next to Rapp and frowned.

A bit of a fashion throwback, McMahon had on a short-sleeve, white dress shirt with a striped tie. In a deep gravelly voice he asked, "What are you up to, Secret Agent Man?"

Rapp smiled. McMahon was one of the few people he knew who had absolutely no problem giving him shit.

"Just a little homework."

McMahon took a seat across from him, letting his tired, beat-up body slump into the leather chair.

"Homework, huh?" he said in a skeptical voice. McMahon studied Rapp with his probing eyes. In his more than thirty years with the Bureau, McMahon had hunted bank robbers, kidnappers, killers, serial killers, terrorists, cyber punks spies, several federal judges and a few politicians to boot. He was a tenacious no-nonsense lawman who the Bureau often called on when they needed results. He was loved by the few people who truly understood him, and hated by the army of bureaucrats in dark suits who were more concerned with protocol than results.

But even the pension gang at the FBI had a grudging respect for McMahon. In a place where 99.9 percent of the employees had never discharged their weapon in the line of duty, McMahon had done so on more occasions than he cared to count. He wasn't a lawyer or an accountant, he was an old-fashioned law enforcement officer.

"So who's General Moro?" asked McMahon, his eyes staying locked on Rapp.

Rapp didn't answer at first. He cursed himself silently for allowing McMahon to read his computer screen and then he tried to figure out how much he should say. McMahon had been brought along to conduct surveillance on Ambassador Cox, and when Rapp gave him the word, he was to arrest the Ambassador and escort him back to the United States.

The President had personally asked for McMahon at the urging of CIA director Ke

Rapp figured McMahon could find out who the general was with one phone call, so he told him the truth.